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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
OF DAVID MUNRO, 
SUB-LIEUTENANT, R.N. 

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I JOIN MY FIRST SHIP. 






THE SUB 

BEING THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DAVID 
MUNRO, SUB -LIEUTENANT, ROYAL NAVY 


BY 

“TAFFRAIL” 

Author of “Fincher Martin, 0. D.” 

etc. 

iSUvAjc^, fa 

m n v * ' 


NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


Copyright , 1918, 

By George E. Doran Company 


JUN 2! 1318 


Printed in the United States of America 



©CI.A497845 


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00 

<m-T* 

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: 






MY MOTHER 
































PREFACE 


T HIS book was written in the brief spare time at 
my disposal, and subject to frequent interrup- 
tion; while often, for weeks at a time, I have 
been unable to lay pen to paper due to my naval duties. 
Indeed, without the generous help of my wife, who 
has read through the narrative both in manuscript 
and proof, I could hardly have completed the book in 
time for publication this autumn. Her assistance and 
suggestions have been invaluable. 

“The Sub” may be criticised in that it devotes too 
much space to pre-hostility days and too little to the 
present war ; but it has been my principal aim to give 
some idea of the life and training of the boy who 
enters the Royal Navy as a cadet through the Col- 
leges at Osborne and Dartmouth. Moreover, I hope 
in a future volume to give further war experiences of 
Sub-Lieutenant David Munro. 

I was not at Osborne myself, and my thanks are 
due to various brother officers, and to the author of 
that excellent little book From Dartmouth to the Dar- 
danelles , for certain information concerning the life 
of a cadet at the R.N. Colleges. 

vii 


Preface 


viii 

It seems almost unnecessary to state that my char- 
acters are fictitious, and that incidents described, 
though generally true in themselves and unexagger- 
ated, must not be taken too literally. 


North Sea 


“Taffrail.” 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Purely Personal 15 

II Through the Mill 39 

III I go to Sea 69 

IV H.M.S. Pericles 84 

V The Day's Work 102 

VI Ups and Downs 125 

VII Promotion 155 

VIII The War Cloud 172 

IX H.M.S. LlCTOR 190 

X A Certain Liveliness 210 

XI Heligoland 225 

XII On Bumps and Other Things . . . ... 249 

XIII The Dogger Bank 269 

XIV The Bitter End 287 

iz 




ILLUSTRATIONS 


I Join My First Ship Frontispiece 

PAGES 

“Does This Man Belong to You, Mr. Nich- 
ols? ” 120 

“Where Had I Seen That Eye-Glass Before? ” 168 

“I Shall Never Forget the Aresthusa in 


Her First Action” 234 

We Are Towed Home 314 



♦ 




THE SUB 







































THE SUB 


CHAPTER I 
Purely Personal 

i 

T HOUGH I have never regretted the happy for- 
tune which caused my name to be entered on 
the list of prospective candidates for admis- 
sion as cadets to the Royal Naval College at Osborne, 
it has always been somewhat of a mystery to me how 
my father first came to consider the Royal Navy as 
a profession for his second son. I daresay I was the 
proverbial fool of the family, but my parent himself 
was in the Army and my elder brother followed in 
his footsteps. 

So far as I am aware, moreover, none of my rela- 
tions have ever served in the fleet of His Majesty or 
his predecessors. We have no seafaring ancestors 
and no nautical traditions — only one uncle who has 
an interest in the welfare of a certain shipping com- 
pany whose vessels he has never seen. 

My own early recollections of the sea merely date 
back to the days of our annual summer visits to the 
15 


i6 


The Sub 


seaside, where, attached to the extremity of a long 
line, the shore end of which was firmly held by some 
responsible person on the beach, I was wont to dis- 
port myself in water up to my waist. I eventually 
learnt to swim, and was then permitted to go afloat 
fishing in a small boat with a long-shore mariner clad 
in a beard, a blue jersey, and immense sea-boots. 

I The fishing, which figured conspicuously in the list 
of attractions of the place, existed largely in the im- 
agination of the local boatmen, who thereby reaped 
a rich harvest from those unsuspecting summer visit- 
ors who knew no better. From my point of view it 
was never really successful, though I remember, at the 
age of nine, earning an honest sixpence from my 
brother by swallowing whole one of the furry-looking 
worms which we used as bait. It was the last of my 
brother’s pocket-money, and, thinking that I would 
never do it, he called me “a dirty little beast !” I quite 
agree. I certainly was a glutton in those days, but I 
still consider that the assimilation of that worm was 
worth more than a miserable sixpence ! 

On my eleventh birthday I went to sea for the first 
time under sail in a clinker-built, cutter-rigged vessel 
known as the Skylark. She spent most of her time 
hauled up on the beach, but when a loud-voiced, red- 
faced, perspiring gentleman in gold braid and a yacht- 
ing cap had induced or bullied sufficient people to 
“Walk up, walk up, ladies and gents! Come and ’ave 
a blow on the briny in the Skylark! Fine sailin’ 
breeze! All round the bay for sixpence!” they 
launched the noble vessel into her rightful element, 


Purely Personal 


1 7 


erected a precarious gang-plank from her bows to the 
water’s edge, and started to rake in the money as ad- 
venturous passengers climbed gingerly on board. 

I, having received a birthday present of five shil- 
lings from a kind aunt, was temporarily opulent, and 
even consented to pay for my elder brother’s ticket 
if he came with me. He, seventeen years old and 
rather blase, had been out in the Skylark before and 
saw nothing at all romantic in the enterprise. He was 
a bit of a sea-dog in his way, and, with him smoking a 
forbidden cigarette and me feeling like Christopher 
Columbus setting out to discover the New Continent, 
we embarked. 

Presently we were reinforced by a battered, blue- 
chinned ruffian with a cornet; a woman with a large 
string-bag and a small baby; a seedy-looking man in 
a bowler hat with three scrubby children — two suck- 
ing oranges and one a stick of glutinous peppermint 
rock ; a merry, middle-aged gentleman in a black cut- 
away coat, white waistcoat, ditto trousers, panama 
hat, and tennis shoes, and who, from his very nauti- 
cal language, I imagined at the time to be a retired 
Admiral; and an unsuspecting curate and his wife. 
The gold braided personage then stepped on board, 
eyed us contemptuously, remarked to his mate that 
we looked a “cheap lot,” and gruffly gave orders to 
“Let ’er go, Bill! ’Oist the fore-s’l!” The gang-plank 
was drawn ashore, and amidst the stirring blasts of 
“A life on the ocean wave” from the cornet, we set 
forth on our voyage of discovery. 

But before we had been ten minutes afloat I dis- 


i8 


The Sub 


covered that a home on the rolling deep, in the good 
ship Skylark , at any rate, did not suit me. It may 
have been that I had spent too much of that five shil- 
lings on unnecessary nourishment during the morning. 
It may have been the heat of the sun or the steady 
but disconcerting pitching of the Skylark. I don’t 
really know what caused it, but I started yawning, 
while my face, so my brother tells me, rapidly as- 
sumed a ghastly, greenish tinge, so that presently I 
leant over the side and offered my first tribute to 
Father Neptune. The curate and his wife, overcome 
at the sight, followed suit. So did the nautical gen- 
tleman in the white waistcoat, and the woman with 
the baby and the string-bag. So did the seedy-look- 
ing man and the three scrubby children. We were all 
involved in it, and all through me. 

The skipper glared at us with the deepest disgust, 
while my unsympathetic brother did his best to pre- 
tend that I did not belong to him. But I was long 
past caring what he thought about it. I was as limp 
and as pallid as any pocket-handkerchief. It did not 
signify to me whether it was Christmas or Easter. I 
had to be carried ashore with my fellow-sufferers, and 
thus ended my first real nautical experience which I 
am never likely to forget. 

It must have been soon after this distressing epi- 
sode that my father, through mutual friends, met Cap- 
tain Charles Playfair, D.S.O., R.N. I think they 
played golf together, but I well remember the Captain 
once coming to lunch with us during my holidays. It 
occurs to me now, moreover, that my mother was dis- 


Purely Personal 


19 


tinctly anxious that I should create a good impression, 
for she took me up to my room, stood over me while 
I scrubbed my hands, changed my collar, and brushed 
my hair, made quite certain that there was no line of 
demarcation round my neck, and told me again that 
I must be sure not to open my mouth unless I was 
first spoken to, and that on no account was I to rat- 
tle the fork against my teeth during the assimilation 
of food. 

To tell the truth, I felt rather awed at all these 
preparations. It was the first time in my life that I 
had ever had the opportunity of seeing a real live 
Captain of the Royal Navy, much less of speaking to 
one. Through my father having been in the Army 
and our home being near a large garrison town I had 
met quite a number of military officers — generals, colo- 
nels, majors, and captains, some of whom took notice 
of me and some of whom did not. But a naval officer 
I had never seen, and being thoroughly au fait with 
Peter Simple and Mr. Midshipman Easy, I regarded 
the commanding officers of His Majesty’s men-of-war 
as something quite apart from the ordinary run of 
human beings. I think I imagined them as fierce ogres 
whom one approached on one’s hands and knees like 
the gilded image of King Nebuchadnezzar. 

But Captain Playfair wasn’t a bit like that, and 
when the gong rang for lunch and I crept downstairs 
on tip-toe with my face shining with soap, halted for 
a space outside the dining-room door, and then sum- 
moned up courage to enter, I was very surprised. Cap- 
tain Playfair seemed quite human. He didn’t even 


20 


The Sub 


wear his uniform, merely a grey suit of rough tweed 
with the baggiest of knickerbockers. His calves were 
very muscular, and as my own legs were like a 
chicken's, I very much admired them. 

He was a strongly built, thickset man of average 
height. His hair was tinged with grey, and he had 
a short beard, a ruddy-brown, weatherbeaten face all 
covered in tiny wrinkles, and a pair of the kindest blue 
eyes I have ever seen. They seemed to twinkle and 
to laugh at one, and some years later, when he was the 
commanding officer of my first seagoing ship, I dis- 
covered that he had the kindest heart as well. In 
those later days we “Snotties" all stood in the great- 
est awe of him ; but he never got angry without good 
reason, and rarely with us. When he was angry, how- 
ever, it was time to stand clear. 

“Hullo !" said my father as I entered. “Here he is. 
Playfair, this is David, my second son." 

“How d’you do, sir," said I, going forward. 

“How d’you do, young man,” nodded Captain Play- 
fair, smiling and wrinkling up the corners of his eyes 
as he looked me keenly up and down and shook hands. 
“How old are you ?" 

“Eleven and three quarters, sir." 

“And how would you like to go into the Navy when 
you're a little older?" 

“I don't think he’s really thought about it yet," my 
mother put in. “We haven't mentioned it." 

The Captain laughed. “Won't do him any harm to 
start thinking about it," he answered. “We catch 'em 
young, you know. Bless my soul! I was at sea be- 


Purely Personal 21 

fore I was fourteen. How's he getting on with his 
work at school?" 

My father looked dubious. My last report had not 
been a very good one. 

“I'm afraid he’s rather backward/’ he explained. 
“However, he’s improving, and can do well if he really 
sets his mind to it.’’ 

“Ah well/’ the Captain said. “He’s very young. 
I was never much of a shining light myself at his age. 
But look here, youngster,’’ he went on kindly. “If 
you want to get into the Navy, you’ll have to work 
hard, you know.’’ 

“I’ll do my best, sir/’ I faltered, hardly knowing 
what to say. 

“That’s right. I’m sure you will/’ said Captain 
Playfair, patting me on the shoulder. “You can’t go 
up for Osborne until you’re a few months over thir- 
teen, but remember to dig out and to get in. Then, if I 
have a ship when you go to sea. I’ll apply for you as 
one of my midshipmen.’’ 

“Thank you, sir/’ said I. 

It was the first time in my life that I had ever 
seriously thought of the Navy as a possible profes- 
sion, and the idea, bursting in upon me suddenly, came 
as rather a bombshell. Not that I disliked the pros- 
pect, in spite of my unpleasant experience on board 
the Skylark. I had read all Marryat’s novels and all 
the sea adventure stories I had been able to get hold 
of, while during the summer holidays I had made 
friends with a coast-guardsman, whose tall yarns had 


22 


The Sub 


filled my little heart with a love for the sea and a de- 
sire to see the world. 

But my parents had never said anything about my 
joining the Navy. I had indulged in the usual infan- 
tile wishes to become an engine-driver, a tram conduc- 
tor, or a bicycle merchant, but at the back of my mind 
I had always taken it for granted that I should one 
day find myself in the Army, like my father, brother, 
and many of my relations. Of course I had sailed 
a boat on a pond, but ever since I could remember my 
toys and games had been almost entirely martial. I 
had innumerable boxes of leaden soldiers, with which 
I used to spend hours fighting imaginary battles. I 
built forts in the garden, and had possessed numerous 
toy swords and guns, a series of drums and trumpets, 
a brass helmet with a long flowing mane, and a shin- 
ing cuirass. I sometimes spent hours in my warlike 
panoply marching up and down the garden path on 
sentry-go outside the hall door, and when the other 
small boys of the place used to come and help me to 
fight the Dervishes, the Red Indians, and the other 
warlike tribes which, in my fervid imagination, in- 
habited the pine woods round our house, my military 
equipment was always much admired and envied. 

So it was a serious and rather sad-faced little boy 
who, after lunch that day, retired to the play-room 
and tumbled all his toys out on to the floor. It was a 
wrench to have to part with them, but I had made up 
my mind. 

“Mother,” I asked, when we were alone at tea that 
afternoon, “am I really going to be a sailor?” 


Purely Personal 


23 


“Yes, dear,” she said. “Father and I hope you 
will get into the Navy some day. You would like it, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“Y-yes. But ...” I hesitated. 

“Well, dear, what is it?” 

“Do you mind if I give away my soldiers and guns 
and things?” I queried, with a lump in my throat. 

“Give them all away ! Whatever put that idea into 
your head ?” 

“Only I thought that if I was to be a sailor I 
shouldn’t want them any more,” I stammered, on the 
verge of tears. 

“You can do what you like with them, David dear,” 
she said, smiling softly. “They are your own toys.” 

“Y-yes. And mother ?” 

“Well?” 

“Will you give me a model steamboat with engines 
for my next birthday ?” 

“Yes, dear, if you like. But your birthday isn’t 
for nearly four months.” 

“I know,” said I wisely. “But I thought I’d let you 
know now. You see, Aunt Caroline generally gives 
me a box of soldiers or something potty like that, so I 
thought you might write and tell her that I’d rather 
have other things more fit for a sailor.” 

“I see,” she nodded, laughing at me. 

So that night when I went to my room I hung the 
brass helmet and my little array of weapons on the rail 
at the foot <?f my bed. I said good-bye to them all in 
turn, thanked them for their trusty services, and laid 
my head on my pillow with a sigh of regret. It was a 


24 


The Sub 


wrench parting with them, but my mind was made 
up, and the next morning before breakfast I carried 
them, and all my boxes of soldiers, off to the wood, 
where I concealed them in a disused gravel-pit which 
we used as a fort. 

We had arranged a sanguinary battle with Afghans 
as a diversion for the morning, and at ten o'clock, 
when my valiant army of five other small boys turned 
up, I made them a little speech. 

“You chaps can share all these things between you,” 
I said, pointing to my pile of toys with a solemn face. 
“I shan’t play at rotten soldiers any more.” 

“Not going to play soldiers any more !” echoed Tony 
Whittle, staring at me in undisguised amazement. 
“But we were going to be Afghans, and Bob was to 
be our prisoner, and we were going to tie him to a tree 
and cut his inside out!” 

“No,” said I stoutly. “That’s all rot. I’m sick of 
soldiering. I’m going into the Navy !” 

“Bags I the helmet!” shrieked the youth about to 
be sacrificed, making a dart for the brazen headgear. 

“Bags I!” shrilled Tony, falling upon him. “I’m 
the eldest and have first pick!” 

They both fell to the ground fighting furiously. 

“ ’Ow ! Let go my hair, you beast !” 

“Take your elbow out of my face, then!” 

“Shan’t unless you promise not to bite !” 

They writhed on the ground breathing heavily and 
rolling over and over in their efforts to get uppermost. 

The other three joined in, and the battle that morn- 
ing was quite the most realistic I had ever witnessed. 


Purely Personal 


2 5 


They fought for my booty with hands, feet, and teeth, 
while I looked on and encouraged them to further 
efforts. 

“Pax!” gasped Bob, prone on the ground with Tony 
sitting on his stomach. “You can have the beastly 
thing!” 

“Jolly good thing for you!” spluttered the victor, 
releasing his antagonist. “Golly, Fve split my 
breeches !” 

So “pax” it was, and when my cherished belongings 
had been shared out, I conducted the scarred and bleed- 
ing heroes to the lavatory. I don’t know what their re- 
spective mothers said when they got home with their 
black eyes, their bleeding noses, and their torn gar- 
ments. 


11 

With the prospect of joining the Navy ever before 
me, I certainly did work harder at school than I had 
ever worked before, so that in a year and nine months, 
by which time I was thirteen and a half and eligible 
for entry from the point of view of age, I was pro- 
ficient enough in English, History, Geography, Arith- 
metic, Algebra, Geometry, French, and Latin to pass 
the qualifying examination for admission to Osborne. 
Moreover, I was the son of “natural-born British sub- 
jects,” and, though rather thin, was “in good health, 
free from any physical defect of body, impediment of 
speech, defect of sight or hearing, and also from any 
predisposition to constitutional or hereditary disease 


26 


The Sub 


or weakness of any kind.” I also possessed “full nor- 
mal vision as determined by Snellen’s tests.” 

But it was neither the x and y part of the business 
nor the “medical” which caused me qualms. It was 
the dreaded interview in which prospective candidates 
were closeted alone in a room with half a dozen flag 
officers and public-school headmasters, so that, by a 
series of questions on any conceivable subject, their 
social qualifications and general suitability for the 
Navy were determined. I was aware that three hun- 
dred boys or so presented themselves for each quali- 
fying test, and that only seventy-five or eighty of these 
were ever successful. Would I be one of the lucky 
25 per cent. ? My school-master evidently thought so 
from what he told my father, but I was by no means so 
sanguine. 

A month before the date of my interview, myself 
and the two other young gentlemen who were trying 
for the Navy from our particular school were visited 
by a tailor. It was a red letter day for us, for the 
tailor, he informed us, was a representative of the 
firm of Messrs. Slieve, Simons & Seawood, the naval 
outfitters, who, nothing if not enterprising, had man- 
aged in some mysterious fashion to procure a list of 
the intending candidates, and sent their representa- 
tives all over the kingdom to measure them one and 
all for their uniform. Seventy-five per cent, of the 
boys who were measured, and had their hopes raised 
by feasting their eyes on the picture of a sea-chest, and 
the coloured illustration of a naval cadet in most im- 
maculate raiment — blue, double-breasted monkey- 


Purely Personal 


27 


jacket, with its eight brass buttons and the most fas- 
cinating little buttons and strips of white twist on the 
collar, gold badged cap with patent-leather peak, and 
the sharpest of creases down the legs of the nether 
garments — never got into Osborne at all. But Mr. 
Slieve got the custom of most of those who did, and 
I think he deserved it. 

Never, before or since, have I known a more en- 
terprising firm. They have branches at nearly every 
naval port, and know the idiosyncrasies of naval offi- 
cers almost better than they know them themselves. 
They have a telegraphic code, and if one is in China 
and cables home the single word “Giraffe,” for ex- 
ample, one invariably receives the six lambswool 
undervests, the pair of shooting-boots, the safety razor, 
telescope, or sword, the bracelet or brooch for a young 
lady, or whatever else one happens to be in need of 
at the moment, by the earliest possible mail. 

History relates that a dashing lieutenant in Malta 
once ordered a polo pony, and received the animal in 
due course. I won’t vouch for the truth of the yam, 
but I verily believe that Mr. Slieve could provide an 
elephant or a steam yacht if he thought there was any 
prospect of his customer being able to pay for them. 

No matter what happens, the presiding genius of the 
firm is always very much on the top line. If one is ap- 
pointed to a new ship, he knows all about it. If one i9 
promoted, he telegraphs his “respectful congratula- 
tions,” and sends his representative on board the next 
day to make the necessary arrangements for the sew- 
ing on of the extra gold stripe. I still treasure a recol- 


28 


The Sub 


lection of a newly promoted commander being chased 
down the crowded thoroughfare of a certain east coast 
naval port by Mr. Slieve’s local manager. It was a 
hot day, but the representative of the well-known firm 
was fleet of foot. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he said breathlessly, overtaking 
his quarry. “I saw you passing, and thought I would 
tell you that we have altered the lace on your best 
monkey-jacket, and that we have a new cap which 
will fit you !”’ 

So the officer turned back and entered the shop. He 
went in wearing the two and a half gold stripes and 
plain peaked cap of a lieutenant-commander, but was 
bowed out ten minutes later in the three stripes and 
“brass hat” 1 of a full-blown commander. 

The manager himself saw him off the premises. 
“Pardon me saying so, sir,” he observed, rubbing his 
hands, “but I am of the opinion that the new cap is 
very becoming to your type of face. It gives you a 
presence, sir, if I may be permitted to say so. Yes, 
sir, the other monkey-jackets will be ready for wear 
the day after to-morrow without fail, and if there is 
anything else you may be requiring, we are always 
ready and anxious to serve you.” 

“Thanks very much,” said the officer, covered in 
blushes and confusion. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Slieve’s representative 
with a bow. 

All of which, I may remark, took place at 5 o’clock 

1 “Brass hat.” Officers of commander’s rank and above 
have gold laurel-leaf embroidery on the peaks of their caps. 


Purely Personal 


29 


in the afternoon of the day on which the officer's pro- 
motion had appeared in the morning papers ! 

But all this is merely by the way. It has nothing 
whatever to do with my entrance examination for 
Osborne. 

It was on a cold and blustery morning in January, 
1907, soon after the school had reassembled after the 
Christmas holidays, that the other two boys for the 
Navy and myself, arrayed in our best Eton suits, over- 
coats, and shiny top-hats, and accompanied by our 
“Head Beak,” the Reverend Robert Hastings, M.A., 
took the train to London. It was a solemn and aus- 
picious occasion, and we travelled first class. It was 
no tirrte for unseemly levity, though we did manage 
to beguile the monotony of the forty-minute run to 
St. Pancras by sticking pins into the legs of Tommy 
Hargreaves while our learned preceptor was im- 
mersed in the Times. And the best of it was that 
Tommy daren’t squeal or otherwise take exception to 
our proceedings. Then we derived some comfort 
from a box of eucalyptus and menthol lozenges which 
we discovered upon his person, and which he had 
been allowed to bring with him on account of the lin- 
gering remnants of a bad cold in the head. 

But at last we arrived in what a journalist would 
call the “gay metropolis,” and, bundling into a taxi- 
cab, we were first taken to a hairdresser, where we had 
our hair cut, shampooed, and plastered all over with 
pomatum to please our examiners, after which we pro- 
ceeded to a dismal block of buildings not far front 
Westminster Abbey. Here old Hastings disappeared, 


30 


The Sub 


leaving us to be conducted to a large room with desks, 
where we found about a dozen more boys from other 
schools. We eyed each other shyly and suspiciously, 
longing to fight; but presently a solemn-looking chap 
with a bald head and a voice like a tin trumpet ap- 
peared on the scene, said, "Seat yourselves, young 
gentlemen,” gave us pens, ink, and paper, and read out 
a short but very dull dictation. When this was fin- 
ished, he told us to write an essay on King Henry 
VIII, of all subjects. I cannot remember exactly what 
I said, but I know I made the most of the matri- 
monial adventures of that redoubtable monarch. 

One by one the participators in the great event, 
for, believe me, it was a great event in our lives, were 
summoned into the inner audience chamber, where the 
members of the interviewing board waited to devour 
us. One by one they returned, some with hopeful 
face and a devil-may-care sort of attitude, others 
moody, despondent, and obviously disappointed. Then 
the asthmatic-voiced custodian opened the door and 
glanced at a paper in his hand. 

"Mister David Munro to step this way, please,” he 
croaked automatically. 

It was my turn at last. I was David Munro, "Mis- 
ter” for the first time in my life, and with strange pal- 
pitations at my heart I left the room and followed 
the porter along endless, dreary-looking corridors, 
until we eventually came to a closed door, behind which 
I could hear the subdued hum of voices. I steeled my- 
self. The porter knocked at the door and was bid- 
den to usher me in. 


Purely Personal 


3 1 


I entered, feeling like an early Christian martyr 
about to be thrown to a den of lions. I heard the 
door close softly behind me, and experienced a miser- 
able feeling of utter loneliness. 

I still remember that severely furnished room, and 
the varnishy smell it had. I can picture the neutral- 
tinted walls, bare, save for a couple of old-fashioned 
steel engravings of long-defunct celebrities in heavy 
black frames; the glass-fronted, mahogany book-case 
filled with learned-looking, leather-bound volumes ; the 
blazing fire; brown linoleum-covered floor; and two 
windows displaying patches of dull wintry sky and an 
endless succession of gaunt chimney-tops and a few 
skeleton trees in the middle distance. I recollect the 
blank map of the world hung rakishly over an easel, 
and the table with its green cloth round which my 
examiners were seated, each with a blotting-pad, paper, 
pencils, and all the rest of the paraphernalia in front 
of him. There were seven of them. Three had 
bronzed faces, straight, determined mouths, and 
wrinkles round the corner of their eyes, which told 
me they belonged to the Royal Navy. Another was a 
bespectacled clergyman, while the other three were 
obviously schoolmasters. 

It was almost with a feeling of relief that I saw 
that one of the naval officers, an elderly, clean-shaven 
man with merry grey eyes, occupied the post of honour 
at the head of the table. I felt somehow that he was 
inclined to be friendly, for he looked up smiling, no- 
ticed my nervousness, and waved a hand towards a 
vacant chair facing him at the foot of the table. 


3* 


The Sub 


“Sit you down, youngster,” he said. 

I did so. 

“Well,” he went on. “Your father was in the 
Army, eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Have you any relations in the Navy?” 

“Not so far as I know, sir.” 

“Why would you like to join?” 

“My father thought it was a good thing, sir.” 

“Quite so, boy; but what do you think about it?” 
he asked, eyeing me critically. 

“Oh, I should like it awfully, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“I’d like to go all over the world, sir, and have a 
chance of fighting,” said I. “And I'm very fond of 
the sea. I’d far sooner be in the Navy than the Army, 
sir.” 

He grinned. “I daresay you’re right. Do you 
know anything about the Navy?” 

“Oh yes, sir! I can tell you the names of all the 
latest Dreadnoughts, and I know how many guns 
they have and what speed they can go.” 

He grunted. “I don’t want to hear that. Tell me 
the date of the battle of ’er, let’s see, yes, the Battle 
of Camperdown?” 

“Seventeen ninety-seven, sir.” 

I don’t really believe he knew whether I was right 
or wrong. 

“Who was it fought against, and what was the 
name of the British Admiral?” 


Purely Personal 


33 


“It was fought against the Dutch, sir, and our Ad- 
miral’s name was Duncan,” I informed him. 

“’Umph! Ever heard of Quiberon Bay?” 

“Oh yes, sir. That was where Lord Hawke beat 
the French fleet under Admiral Conflans in seventeen 
fifty-nine. He sailed in and fought them on a lee 
shore.” 

My questioner seemed rather surprised. “And 
where did you learn that, boy?” he wanted to know. 

“I think I read it in a book, sir.” 

“Right. Now you ask him some questions,” he 
added, turning to one of the schoolmasters, and set- 
ting to work to draw little pictures of ships and things 
on his blotting-paper. 

“Whereabouts is Ceylon?” I was asked. “Point it 
out on the map.” 

I got up and did so, correctly. 

“What is the capital of Ceylon?” 

“Col ... no, sir. I mean Kandy.” 

“What does Ceylon export?” 

“Spices, coconut oil, pearls, and tea, sir,” I rattled 
off. “Sir Thomas Lipton gets all his tea from there.” 

The officer at the head of the table tittered, but 
the gentleman who asked the question glared at me 
as though I were a criminal. Evidently he thought 
I had intended to be funny; but I was much too nerv- 
ous for that. 

“Where is the isthmus of Panama?” he snapped, 
thinking to floor me. 

“Here, sir,” said I, pointing to the map. 

“What is an isthmus?” 


34 


The Sub 


“A narrow strip of land joining two larger pieces.” 

“And what do you know about Panama?” 

“The Americans are building a canal there,” I an- 
swered, beginning to dislike the man 

“And when the canal is finished it will join . . .?” 
he looked up interrogatively. 

“The Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean.” 

“Thus making it unnecessary for a ship voyaging 
from, say, New York to Valparaiso ... by the way, 
what is Valparaiso the capital of?” 

“Chile, sir,” I told him, bored at the stupidity of 
the question. I had not collected stamps for nothing. 

“Quite right. And by having a canal through the 
isthmus of Panama a ship going from New York to 
Valparaiso will save many hundreds of miles by not 
having to . . . ?” he paused, and looked at me. 

“Go through the Straits of Magellan,” I said. 

“Not necessarily the Straits of Magellan,” he ob- 
served pedantically. “She might go round Tierra del 
Fuego and pass Cape . . .?” 

“Cape Horn,” said I. 

“Is this ship of yours a steamer or a sailing ship?” 
queried the Admiral at the head of the table. 

“Oh, ’er, a steamer, I think,” said the schoolmaster. 

“Well she’d go through the Straits if I was in charge 
of her,” the naval man grunted. 

The schoolmaster seemed rather annoyed. 

They turned me inside out, asking me amongst 
other things to tell them what I knew of the War of 
the Spanish Succession; of William Wallace — I mixed 
him up with Robert Bruce, and brought in a long story 


Purely Personal 


35 


about the industrious spider — and the names and pro- 
fessions of the Twelve Apostles, this latter question 
coming from the clergyman. Further, they wished to 
know what games I played, and why I preferred foot- 
ball to cricket; what books I had read and cared for 
most, while one of the naval officers — I think he was a 
post-captain — asked whether I knew “port” from 
“starboard” and a “granny” from a “reef-knot.” 
Finally I was told to name the three most important 
inventions of the age. 

“Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes, and — 'er, subma- 
rines, sir,” said I. 

The chief examiner nodded approvingly. 

“And what would you do if you were stranded in 
London with no money to get home ?” he asked. 

I thought for a moment or two. “I think I should 
go to the shop where my father buys his cigars and 
tell the man what I wanted, sir,” I said. 

“Oh, indeed. And supposing it was Sunday and 
the place was shut ?” 

“I should go to my uncle, sir,” I explained, inno- 
cently enough. 

Somebody tittered. 

“What, and pawn your watch ?” asked the Admiral. 

“Oh no, sir ! I should ask him to lend me five shil- 
lings. The fare home is only two and ninepence third 
class.” 

He smiled. “And suppose your uncle wasn't in, 
what then ?” 

“I’d borrow it from the butler, sir,” I told him, not 
to be outdone. 


36 


The Sub 


“And who is this uncle of yours ?” 

“It’s my aunt really, sir,” I stammered. “She's my 
mother's sister and married my uncle. Her name is 
Conway, and she lives at 21, Worcester Square. It's 
not far from Lancaster Gate station, sir.'' 

“Thank you, young gentleman, that will do,'' said 
the Admiral, nodding at me with a smile. “Good 
morning, and do not omit to close the door behind 
you like the last youngster.” 

I bowed and retired. The interview was over. 

The medical examination, which came next, was a 
depressing ordeal enough, and on my arrival in the 
room with one of my schoolmates we were told by a 
dreary-looking gentleman with gold pince-nez to strip 
to the buff behind a screen in a small and very 
draughty alcove. Then we sallied forth, naked and 
very ashamed, while the gloomy person and an equally 
mouldy friend appraised us as if we were fowls or 
sheep. They pounded and thumped our bodies, tested 
our eyesight, sounded our hearts, made us climb up 
ropes attached to the ceiling and jump in the air, 
ordered us to cough and to say “ninety-nine,” and 
asked us the most searching questions about ourselves 
and our parents. 

I suppose really that the two examining doctors 
were kind and sympathetic enough, but how I hated 
them at the time. After all, one never feels at one's 
best when one has to appear before utter strangers 
without a vestige of a garment in which to hide one's 
nakedness. It reminds one, somehow, of those hor- 
rible, nightmarish dreams in which one imagines one- 


Purely Personal 


37 


self arriving at Windsor Castle for a garden party, or 
walking down Bond Street, in nothing but a cholera- 
belt. 

We were not informed at the time whether or not 
we had been found sound in wind and limb. How- 
ever, I cared little for that. I was merely very glad 
to get into my clothes again, for the room itself wa9 
like a hot-house and our dressing-cubicle like the in-, 
side of a refrigerator. 

The third fellow who had been up from our school 
had apparently failed, for about a month or so later 
Tommy Hargreaves and myself were again summoned 
to London for the written exam. I had never been 
clever, but even I did not find it very difficult, and 
three weeks later both our names appeared in the 
newspapers among the successful candidates. I was 
glad that they were put down in alphabetical order, 
otherwise I might have figured near the bottom of the 
list. 

Soon afterwards I received the official announce- 
ment from the Admiralty informing me that I must 
hold myself in readiness to join the Royal Naval Col- 
lege at Osborne, Isle of Wight, in May. Messrs. 
Slieve, Simons & Seawood rose to the occasion, and 
on Easter Sunday I went to church at home in my 
brand-new cadet's uniform. It was the first time I 
had worn it, except for a dress rehearsal in the draw- 
ing-room, and I am afraid I put on a considerable 
amount of “side.” At any rate, I remember being 
rather diffident about talking to friends of my own 
age who, in their Eton suits, were still mere civilians. 


38 


The Sub 


I imagined myself a bit of a “nut,” if not the king 
of all the filberts. 

But I was small for my age, and soon afterwards 
my pride was taken down a peg, and by the bookstall 
man at the station, of all people. 

I had been up to London to visit the dentist, and 
had returned alone, and my brother came rather late 
to meet me. 

“Have you seen any one in naval uniform?” he 
asked Mr. Sugg, the bookstall manager. 

“No, sir,” said the old beast, “I have not. But 
there was a little boy dressed up as a sailor here about 
ten minutes ago.” 

Dressed up as a sailor, forsooth ! The cheek of the 
nan! 


CHAPTER II 


Through the Mill 

i 

I N due course, wearing my uniform, and accom- 
panied by one small trunk, a regulation handbag 
in brown leather, a cricket bag, and a new, evil- 
smelling mackintosh, I arrived at Waterloo station to 
catch the special cadet’s train to Portsmouth en route 
for Osborne. The greater portion of my kit, thanks 
to the indefatigable energy of Mr. Slieve, had been 
sent to the College in my new sea-chest a week or 
more beforehand. 

We, the newly entered cadets, joined a day earlier 
than the others to give us a chance of becoming more 
or less acclimatised to our new surroundings before 
the old-timers arrived, but of the seventy and five 
sucking Jellicoes on the platform there was only one 
that I knew, and that was Tommy Hargreaves. We 
both felt shy and lonely in such a crowd of strange 
faces, and I think he was just as glad of my moral 
support as I was of his. 

My term-mates came from different schools all over 
the United Kingdom. Some were large and some 
were small. Some were tall and thin, others fat and 
stumpy. Some had rosy cheeks and were cheerful, 
39 


40 


The Sub 


others were pale faced and seemed on the verge of 
tears. Some were loud-voiced and aggressive, but 
most of us were very humble and meek. A few of 
those who knew no better had brought their fathers 
and mothers, their aunts, and their sisters to see them 
off. Half a dozen parents, indeed, as assorted in 
shape and size as their progeny, even accompanied us 
to Portsmouth in the train, and did not finally leave 
us until their tearful offspring were safely embarked 
on board the dockyard tug which ferried across the 
Solent to Osborne. But I, wise in my generation and 
considering myself very much a man of the world, 
would have none of these things. I would not have 
dreamt of allowing my parents to accompany me even 
if they had expressed a desire to do so, which they 
had not. 

After all, parents are all very well in their right 
place, at home. But on the platform of a railway 
station amongst a crowd of their son’s future compan- 
ions they are a positive nuisance, and little know 
what misery their young hopefuls afterwards have to 
suffer through their presence. The “mother’s dar- 
lings” always started under a disadvantage, and until 
half-way through our first term one fellow called 
Smiley- Jones was always having his leg pulled because 
his mother, father, afld a rather pretty flapper sister 
came with him as far as Portsmouth. Moreover, the 
sister wept when Smiley-Jones departed. I suppose 
boys are little beasts to each other, but our remarks 
were always personal, sometimes brutal. 

“Hullo, Smiler ?” we used to ask him, “How’s 


Through the Mill 


4i 


your ugly sister? Give her my love next time you 
write, and ask her if she’s got a clean handkerchief 
yet,” or “I don’t think much of your mother’s taste 
in dress, old chap. I do hope she will have been able 
to get a new bonnet by the time you go on leave.” 

But I have rather gone off at a tangent. 

At Waterloo station there was also the lieutenant of 
our term and four cadet captains to look after us. 
Some of us saluted the lieutenant and some of us did 
not, but as neither he nor his myrmidons started to 
exert their authority until we arrived at Portsmouth, 
none of us quite realised at the time that he was to 
be our guide and mentor, and the ruler of our desti- 
nies for the next two years of our lives. 

Each term at Osborne or at Dartmouth has its own 
officer in charge of it who arranges the games, en- 
forces discipline, and is generally responsible for the 
well-being and behaviour of his cadets. Our lieu- 
tenant’s name was Massey- Johnson, Richard Massey- 
Johnson, and he had all but played for his county at 
cricket, and actually had his cap for Rugby with the 
United Services. I believe he played for England 
afterwards. I shouldn’t think he was much of an 
“ x chaser,” but was a rattling good seaman and dead 
keen on games and athletics generally, and woe betide 
any cadet who made a habit of spending his after- 
noons in the canteen instead of taking proper ex- 
ercise. Moreover, Massey- Johnson’s notions of dis- 
cipline and of what was correct and proper deportment 
in future naval officers were also very strict. In short, 


42 


The Sub 


if we misbehaved ourselves, he “chassed” 1 us until 
our lives became a misery and a burden, and now, 
looking back at it, I must say that his regime did us a 
power of good. 

We all loved him, and at the end of two years, when 
we left Osborne for Dartmouth, we each subscribed 
two shillings with the idea of presenting him with a 
small memento in the shape of a travelling-clock. 
Then we were informed that collective presents from 
juniors to seniors were not allowed by the regulations, 
so the project fell through. We had a photograph 
of the whole lot of us taken instead, a copy of which, 
in a frame with a small silver plate bearing an inscrip- 
tion, we gave him on the last day of our last term. 
He said he would treasure it all his life, and nearly 
wept when he said good-bye to us. 

The “cadet captains” were selected from among 
the senior terms, and acted as assistants to the lieu- 
tenant, being put in charge of their juniors in much 
the same way as prefects at a public school. They 
were distinguished by a little knot of gold lace worn 
on one sleeve, were allowed certain privileges, and 
received the sum of one shilling a week for their 
services. Their ideas of discipline were also strict, 
and if we were slack or idle, they either applied the 
toe of a boot to a certain portion of our anatomy, or 
reported us to the officer of the term. 

But it was not until our arrival at Portsmouth that 
Massey- Johnson and his myrmidons took charge, and 
started to hustle us into shape. Mr. Slieve’s repre- 
1 “Chassed,” i.e. chased or harried. 


Through the Mill 


43 


sentative, having chartered a couple of covered vans 
to convey our luggage to the dockyard, was also there 
waiting for us, and in the intervals of superintending 
the disembarkation of our belongings from the train, 
he did his best to answer the innumerable questions of 
a horde of cadets. 

Never shall I forget one very small fellow called 
Johnny Harker, who marched up to him. 

“I say,” he demanded, in a shrill treble, "‘do you 
come from Slieve’s?” 

“I do, sir,” said the man, mopping his heated 
brow. 

“Well, my mother says that the six summer vests 
youVe given me aren’t thick enough. She wants to 
know if you’ll change them for thicker ones with 
long sleeves?” 

“If you will give me your name, sir,” said “Mr. 
Slieve,” producing a notebook without a smile on his 
face, “the matter shall be rectified with all possible 
despatch.” 

It was, but poor Johnny was known as the “frow- 
ster” or “fuggy beast” for ever afterwards. Thick, 
long-sleeved vests in summer were quite beyond the 
pale at Osborne! 

At last, after a certain amount of confusion and 
much shoving into places on the part of the cadet 
captains, we were marshalled in fours outside the 
station. 

“Party . . . left turn!” ordered the lieutenant. 
“Quick . . . march!” 

We stepped off bravely enough, some with the right 


44 


The Sub 


foot and some with the left. We swelled out our chests 
and tried to walk with a nautical roll, so that the 
crowd of onlookers might be gulled into believing 
that we were real sailors. But it was a miserable 
failure. 

“Lor’ love a duck!” I heard a woman remark in a 
strident whisper as we ambled down the Hard. “Look 
at the little dears! What are they, I wonder?” 

“Them’s a horphanage out for a hairin’,” said her 
husband. “They ’ain’t got no farthers nor mothers, 
pore little blokes, so they gives ’em a treat once a 
year by takin’ ’em round the dockyard to see the 
ships.” 

I felt very small — very small indeed. 

Immediately in rear of our phalanx came the two 
chariots filled with luggage. Astern of them, like a 
chief mourner, came Mr. Slieve’s man, alternately 
sucking a pencil, scratching his head, and making hur- 
ried entries in a notebook. Behind him again came a 
party of parents and relations with those very self- 
conscious cadets to whom they belonged. It only 
wanted a band at our head and a few wreaths to trans- 
form our triumphal procession into a very fair repre- 
sentation of a naval funeral. 

We marched along the Hard and in through the 
dockyard gates with the policemen grinning at us be- 
hind their moustaches. We tramped up a cobbled 
roadway, and then, turning to the left, passed under 
a couple of archways and arrived on the South Rail- 
way Jetty. There was a “Dreadnought” lying along- 
side, and we eyed her curiously. Some of us had 


Through the Mill 


45 


never seen a battleship before, and the sight of her 
huge grey hull and long guns rather filled us with 
amazement. 

But the tug, a sturdy yellow-funnelled, paddle craft, 
was waiting for us with steam flickering from her 
exhaust pipes and her skipper stumping impatiently up 
and down the bridge. On arriving abreast of her, all 
hands at once set about transferring our gear on 
board, with Mr. Slieve’s representative buzzing round 
like a blue-bottle fly to see that nothing was left 
behind. Then we went on board, and those youths 
who had been foolish enough to bring their people, 
said good-bye. One or two of them actually wept, 
and so did some of their female relations. It was 
a most affecting scene. One would almost have imag- 
ined that we were a party of explorers setting out 
to discover the South Pole, instead of merely trav- 
elling across the Solent to the Isle of Wight. 

The skipper of the tug cut short the farewells by 
pulling the lanyard of his steam whistle. The home- 
sick ones crept sheepishly on board, trying hard to 
look as if they didn’t want to cry, the gangway was 
drawn in and the securing ropes let go, and the tug, 
with much splashing from her paddles and furious 
blasts from her syren, backed out into the stream. 
The little crowd of mothers, fathers, sisters, and 
aunts on the jetty waved their handkerchiefs to their 
respective belongings, and then, thank goodness, we 
went ahead and the stem of the battleship intervened 
between us and them. 

“Pah! What silly rot!” grunted Tommy Har- 


46 


The Sub 


greaves contemptuously. “Fancy blubbing in public 
like that! I said good-bye at home, but I didn’t jolly 
well blub.” 

“Nor did I,” I answered loftily. “But I expect these 
kids were all day boys at some rotten dame’s school 
and don’t know any better.” 

The tug churned her way down the harbour like 
a flustered fowl. We passed Nelson’s Victory , which 
was duly pointed out to us by the lieutenant, and 
then Fort Blockhouse with Haslar Creek and its sub- 
marines close beside it. Next, turning to port down 
the channel outside the harbour mouth, we went on 
till the leading marks were in line, and headed out 
across the Swashway toward the Solent. 

I had been to Portsmouth before, and had been 
taken round the dockyard and on board various men- 
of-war, but never shall I forget my first impressions 
of Spithead as a small and very insignificant unit of 
His Majesty’s Navy. It was one of those pleasant 
breezy days with a brilliant sun and masses of white 
rounded cloud scurrying across a hard azure sky. The 
water was ruffled enough by the wind to be intensely 
blue, and against the greeny-blue background of the 
Isle of Wight we could see the grey hulls of the men- 
of-war lying at Spithead. I remember taking some 
pride in pointing them out to my more ignorant com- 
panions and in being able to differentiate between the 
various classes. 

There were half a dozen battleships anchored in two 
lines, a couple of them being “Dreadnoughts,” and the 
others vessels of an earlier class. Then two low-lying, 


Through the Mill 


47 


four-funnelled cruisers, and another smaller ship of 
the same type. Hurrying in through the channel past 
the black and white chequered Spit Fort came a divi- 
sion of four black destroyers, long, wicked-looking 
craft with smoke pouring from their stumpy funnels 
and the white water piled up in their wakes. 

I have always loved destroyers from that day to 
this, though the destroyers of to-day are very different 
to those of 1907. There is something fascinating 
about them which I cannot exactly describe. A battle- 
ship dawdles through the water like a perambulating 
fort. The huge mass of a battle-cruiser, so bulky that 
it seems impossible that men can have fashioned her, 
speeds along with hardly any visible signs of the im- 
mense power which drives her. But a destroyer, being 
small, always seems so intensely human. She is ever 
in a hurry; her slender hull fusses along in an agi- 
tated sort of way, with the water creaming at her 
bow and stern, and those touches of white always 
remind me of the flutter of a pretty girl’s petticoat as 
she is running to catch a train. 

But we were not given very much time for admir- 
ing the scenery, for no sooner were we past Gilkicker 
Fort than the cadet captains, dividing us into batches, 
took us in hand and taught us how to salute. They 
told us that we were to pay this mark of respect to 
all officers who wore gold stripes on their arms, and 
that if we didn’t do it we should incur the most dis- 
agreeable penalties. 

When we were tolerably proficient at saluting, they 
went on to explain various other mysteries of naval 


48 


The Sub 


discipline and Osborne etiquette. The first term ca- 
dets, we soon discovered, were mere blots or excres- 
cences on the landscape, and as such it was our bounden 
duty to obey the orders of all the senior cadets of the 
third, fourth, fifth, and sixth terms. If we did not, 
then those young gentlemen would soon make things 
confoundedly unpleasant. The second term cadets 
might also try to bounce us into obeying their com- 
mands, but as they too were contemptible “dog's 
bodies" of no importance, we need pay no attention 
to them, could even fight them if we thought we had 
a chance of winning. Then we were given to under- 
stand that all orders must be obeyed at the run, and 
that walking or slouching about was not permitted. 

Moreover, by long-established custom, dating back 
from the old Britannia days, cadets of the junior terms 
were forbidden to swing the keys worn on the lanyards 
round their necks, must not turn up the bottoms of 
their trousers, wear their caps crooked or on the back 
of their heads, nor be seen with their hands in their 
pockets. There were many other things which we were 
not permitted to do, all of which were considered as 
“cheek," and were duly punished on the spot by the 
senior cadets with the utmost rigour of their self-made 
law. Indeed, at 4.30 in the afternoon, by which time 
our tug had splashed her noisy way up the Medina 
to East Cowes and we were preparing to disembark, 
my head was so crammed with things “verboten" that 
my sorely tried brain was in a whirl. 

At the time of my leaving the scholastic establish- 
ment of the Reverend Robert Hastings, I had been one 


Through the Mill 


49 


of the lesser luminaries of the school and a bit of a 
“bug,” as we termed it. Here, at Osborne, I was to 
become an absolute nonentity, one of the lowest of 
the very low. I was to be subject to the orders of 
about forty officers and masters, not to mention some 
three hundred cadets all senior to myself ! The pros- 
pect was appalling. I was quite thankful on the whole 
that there were only four and twenty hours in the day, 
out of which one spent the greater portion in the 
process of being instructed or in bed. 

We were driven up to the College in wagonettes, 
and, having been provided with a high-tea in a huge 
barn of a mess-room which ordinarily provided seat- 
ing accommodation for about 450 cadets, but now 
held us alone in all our glory, as the senior terms did 
not join until the morrow, we were allowed a cer- 
tain amount of time to visit our dormitories. There 
were two dormitories for each term. They opened 
off a long corridor, and the term reading-room, where 
we amused ourselves in our spare time, stood across 
the way. One servant was allowed for every six or 
eight cadets, and the man who looked after me, a 
dissolute-looking fellow of chastened appearance, was 
named Spruggs. He had grog-blossoms on his nose, 
which he said came from rheumatism in his legs, but 
though I never actually saw him the worse for liquor, 
I didn’t believe him. However, he wasn’t a bad serv- 
ant, and condescended to unpack my belongings while 
I gloated over the newly acquired sea-chest, with my 
name on the brass plate on the lid, which stood at the 
foot of my bed. 


50 


The Sub 


I had barely time to ascertain the names and to 
exchange confidences with the fellows on either side 
of me, however, than we were ordered to fall in on 
“Nelson,” a large open space with a chapel at one 
end and a gymnasium at the other. It was our quar- 
terdeck, and was treated with all the reverence of 
this particular portion of one of His Majesty’s ships, 
being saluted each time we emerged upon it. More- 
over, it was the place where the chaplain read prayers 
in the morning, where we fell in for inspections twice 
a day, and to be harangued by the powers that be. 
It was also the spot where the defaulters were inter- 
viewed. I came to know it well! 

Shepherded by the cadet captains, we were eventu- 
ally formed up in some sort of order, whereupon we 
were mustered and reported correct to the lieutenant 
of the term. This officer then disappeared, presently 
to arrive with the captain and commander behind 
him. 

“Cadets . . . ’shun!” ordered Lieutenant Massey- 
Johnson. 

We “ ’shunned” as best we could, while Captain 
Seton, a sturdy little man with a chest covered in 
medal ribbons, a red face, and a merry, roving blue 
eye, cleared his throat, let his glance run up and down 
our ranks, and stepped to the front. 

“Young gentlemen,” he said, “it is my duty to wel- 
come you to a college which was established for the 
education of gentlemen entering His Majesty’s Navy 
as officers. You have left school and have now en- 
tered a very important period of your careers. You 


Through the Mill 


5i 


are young, but for the first time in your lives you 
are wearing the King’s uniform and are his servants.” 

He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. 

“I need hardly remind you,” he resumed, “that 
Osborne is in no sense a private school. It is a naval 
establishment, part and parcel of the Royal Navy, one 
of His Majesty’s ships, in fact, and as such it is run 
on Service lines. Naval discipline is carried on here. 
Discipline is necessarily strict, and at first you may 
find it rather irksome. But it is enforced so that when 
you go to sea as officers you in your turn will be able 
to take charge of your men and to win their confidence 
and respect. I do not wish to din into your ears the 
pains and the penalties that may be visited upon you if 
you misbehave — you will soon discover them for your- 
selves. What I do want you to realise is that you 
are sent here to become officers, and that the term ‘offi- 
cer’ is synonymous with ‘gentleman.’ If you work 
hard and obey your officers and instructors you will 
get on. If you do not, the Navy has no use for you, 
and you will lose the opportunity of becoming mem- 
bers of the finest Service in the world. Work hard, 
play hard, and behave as gentlemen; that is all we 
ask. Remember that though those cadets who mis- 
behave themselves may occasionally have to be cor- 
rected, we all have your welfare at heart. You will 
not find us unjust or unkind, for most of us have been 
cadets ourselves. But remember Nelson and his band 
of brothers; remember the glorious traditions of the 
Service whose uniform you have the honour to wear, 


52 


The Sub 


and you will not go far wrong. That is all I have to 
say to you. Bear it in mind.” 

Some people might have thought that Captain 
Seton’s little speech was rather highfalutin and over 
the heads of boys of thirteen, but it didn’t give me 
that impression. He was not treating us as school- 
boys; more as responsible men, and I liked the tone of 
what he said and the pithy, abrupt sort of way he 
said it. He made it quite plain, too, that even though 
we were only junior cadets, we were still members of 
the Royal Navy, and the bit at the end about Nelson 
and his band of brothers made most of us feel rather 
proud of ourselves. I know that I did. 

After all, being a schoolboy was all very well in its 
way. It had been pleasant enough to be somewhere 
near the top and to be able to order the smaller kids 
about ; but it was a very different pair of boots to being 
a cadet at Osborne and to wearing an uniform. There 
was some honour and glory attached to it. Moreover, 
I was one of the lucky seventy-five who had passed in, 
not one of the 225 who had been rejected. 

The skipper’s words were not the last we were to 
listen to that evening, for when he had finished he 
turned to the commander. 

"I’ll turn ’em over to you now, Commander,” he 
said, leaving us. Commander Rupert Lawrence was 
the very opposite to the captain. He was tall and very 
slim, with a tanned, rather thin face, grey eyes which 
seemed to peer through one, and rather a severe ex- 
pression unless he was actually smiling. I afterwards 
discovered that the severe expression meant nothing at 


Through the Mill 


53 


all, for “Rupy,” as we referred to him behind his back, 
always barked worse than he bit, and had a very 
warm corner in his heart for us “young fellas,” as he 
called us. I have known him give cadets money to 
spend in the canteen when they were hard up, and 
when any of us ever went to the sick quarters, he 
always used to roll up in the afternoons with his 
arms full of books and his pockets full of sweets. 
The latter were contraband, and a Sister once bowled 
him out giving a quarter of a pound of chocolate 
creams to a greedy little beast of a chap who was 
always having bilious attacks from overeating. There 
was a bit of a shindy about it. 

But when we were ill we always looked forward to 
the commander coming to see us, not so much for what 
he brought, but for the amusing yarns he used to spin. 
And they were funny. How I wish I could remember 
some of them now that I have started this book. 

“Rupy” had light curly hair which grew round his 
ears and over the band of his cap, and at our concerts 
he would sit down at a piano, ruffle his hair, and keep 
us in fits of laughter by pretending to be a society 
entertainer. There was nothing amateurish about it 
either, for he did conjuring tricks as well, and would 
have made a fortune on the music-hall stage. And the 
fact that he occasionally condescended to play the fool 
did not lessen our respect for him in the very least. 
He wasn’t much of a hand at football or any winter 
games that I know of, but was an expert horseman 
and hunted whenever he got the chance, while he 
played cricket regularly in the summer and occasion- 


54 


The Sub 


ally for the Free Foresters or the M.C.C. He had 
plenty of private means to indulge in any hobby he 
cared for, but apart from his hunting you would never 
have guessed it. 

His first speech to us was very fierce. Looking 
back at it now, I think it was deliberately intended to 
frighten us, though I cannot remember half the things 
he said. I recollect, though, that he said he was re- 
sponsible for the cleanliness of the College, and woe 
betide us if we were seen leaning against the paint- 
work (“my paintwork/’ he called it), bringing mud 
into the dormitories or class-rooms, leaving things 
lying about, hurling food at each other’s heads at 
meals, or daring to be in the possession of catapults 
or other lethal weapons. However, he tamed down a 
bit after a while, and finished off by telling us one of 
his funny yarns. I am afraid we did not appreciate it. 
We were much too petrified to laugh. 

Then Lieutenant Massey -Johnson addressed us, 
telling us that we were to come to him through the 
term Chief Petty Officer if we wanted anything, that 
he would like to have the names of all those cadets who 
were keen on games, and giving us some sort of an 
idea of what we were expected to do. He didn’t take 
very long, and when it was all over we were marched 
off and were permitted to occupy ourselves as we 
liked. 

At about 8.30 came more food in the shape of buns 
and glasses of milk, and half an hour afterwards we 
were chased off to our dormitories and turned in. 

Thus ended my first day at Osborne. It was alto- 


Through the Mill 


55 


gether an eventful day, but even the novelty and the 
excitement of it did not prevent my dropping off to 
sleep the moment my head touched the pillow. 

ii 

I have gone into the subject of my joining the 
Navy and my first day at Osborne because both events 
were red letter days in my life. I do not propose to 
enter into the same detail when describing my life at 
the Colleges at Osborne and Dartmouth. For one 
thing my career there was a very ordinary one; sec- 
ondly, this book has to be within certain limits ; while, 
thirdly, my memory often fails me as to what some- 
times took place ten years ago. So many important 
events have happened since ; and I have a theory that 
one’s brain is like a sponge, and that the cleverer one 
happens to be, the larger that sponge is. Eventually 
one reaches a saturation point when one’s brain or 
memory, call it what you like, can retain nothing fur- 
ther unless something else is squeezed out to make 
room for it. Some clever people who were naval 
cadets with me have not reached their saturation point 
yet, and may never do so. Mine came two or three 
years ago. I am a very average person. 

I have never quite agreed with people who are too 
elderly to remember their own boyhood and assert for 
the benefit of their young relations that one’s school- 
days are the happiest of one’s life. I don’t think they 
are, for, besides a constant atmosphere of monotony 
and petty restriction, the constant “don’t do this” and 


56 


The Sub 


“do that,” the life is full of discomfort and inconveni- 
ences, particularly for a small boy. But I most cer- 
tainly enjoyed my time as a naval cadet, though the 
life was more strenuous and the discipline far and 
away more severe than at any school. The best thing 
about it was that we were handled by officers who 
were used to handling seamen. We were brought 
up to a sense of responsibility, and felt, somehow, 
that we owed it to the Navy to maintain a certain 
standard. 

In a term of about seventy-five there were boys of 
all types. There were the “x chasers,” who were 
naturally brilliant, worked without apparent effort, 
and knew their own capacity ; the plodders, who always 
toiled manfully with their noses to the grindstone and 
achieved a certain degree of success. Then the people 
of average intelligence, who were not beyond idling 
on occasions if a subject did not interest them, but gen- 
erally did their fair share of work and could do 
well if they tried. Next came the intensely dull, but 
well meaning and conscientious, who never got very 
far; and lastly the out and out slackers or rotters, 
who didn’t care how little work they did and were 
rather proud of the fact. 

An idler at school can sometimes linger on for 
terms until he is finally requested to go elsewhere. 
An habitual slacker at Osborne, however, was soon 
sized up, and if repeated warnings did not cause him 
to mend his ways, he generally got the Order of the 
Boot at the end of his third term and became a civil- 
ian again, much to the disgust of his parents. Four 


Through the Mill 


57 


members of our term vanished like that. I met one 
of them some time afterwards. He was about to 
become a clerk in a London office, and did not relish 
the idea of licking stamps and addressing envelopes 
from nine till half past six. He was rather down on 
his luck, and borrowed half a sovereign. It was the 
last I ever saw of it. 

I might go on describing my term-mates for ever, 
for they were all different. But as this book is sup- 
posed to be about me and not about them, I had 
better desist. I was neither an “ x chaser” nor a plod- 
der. I was, I consider, a “person of average intelli- 
gence,” and could do well if I really made up my 
mind to it. But I was by no means a model of all 
virtues, and at times was not altogether industrious. 

On one occasion I remember deriving no small sat- 
isfaction and amusement by placing sherbert in some- 
body else’s ink-well during a science lecture, whereupon 
the owner of the ink, privy to the plot, gazed agi- 
tatedly at the blue, cauliflower-like mass rising from 
his desk, and summoned the short-sighted science 
master to his side in a voice of feigned alarm. 

“Please, sir,” he piped, “do come and look at my 
ink!” The master approached. 

“Dear me!” he observed, with the deepest interest, 
looking at the frothy thing through his spectacles and 
putting out a tentative hand. “Whatever is it?” 

“Don’t touch it, sir!” squeaked its owner. “It’s my 
ink, and it’s going to burst in a minute !” 

We stuffed our handkerchiefs into our mouths to 


58 


The Sub 


stifle our mirth. “Dear me,” mused the master. “I 
wonder what has made it go like that?” 

“It must be the hot weather, sir,” said several peo- 
ple at once. 

“M’yes, quite so, the hot weather. But it mustn’t 
occur again, boy.” 

“I hope it won’t, sir.” 

We found it intensely amusing, but I was fool 
enough to try the same game about a week later. The 
result, utterly unexpected, was rather different. 

Once more the balloon arose from some one’s ink- 
pot, and again a small voice observed that his writing 
fluid had gone “rummy” on account of the heat. An 
intensely interesting phenomenon, observed the mas- 
ter, but would the cadets kindly refrain from laughing, 
and would the young gentleman who had placed a 
Seidlitz powder in Molyneux’s inkpot oblige him by 
standing up. It was not a Seidlitz powder, but I rose 
guiltily, and was requested to leave the room and 
report myself to a certain person in authority. I did 
so, and spent the next few afternoons doing physical 
drill and walking with a sergeant of Royal Marines 
instead of amusing myself with the others. More- 
over, I was not allowed to enter the canteen. 

Trying to be funny at the expense of the authori- 
ties did not pay, and I soon gave it up. But one youth 
in his third term received what the gentleman who 
taught us drawing called “six knocks with the cane” 
for illicit manoeuvres carried out on somebody else’s 
anatomy with the business end of a pair of dividers. 
And at Osborne or Dartmouth, six with the cane, laid 


Through the Mill 59 

on by a lusty Chief Petty Officer upon that portion of 
one's body which one usually places on a chair, were 
excessively painful. There was also a certain amount 
of unpleasant ritual attached to the performance, and 
the only consolation afforded to the sufferer was that 
he might afterwards make a little extra pocket-money 
by exhibiting the bruises to his more select friends. 
But the fellow I mean wasn’t very popular, and made 
only fourpence, so it wasn’t really worth it. 

At the risk of being tedious it would be as well to 
give some idea of a typical day in the life of a naval 
cadet. Our routine at Osborne and at Dartmouth 
was very similar. At 6.30 in summer and 6.45 in win- 
ter (I think it was 6 o’clock at Dartmouth), we were 
roused out of beds by the bugler sounding the reveille. 
Well I remember that bugle call : 



and the words we applied to it : 


“Sandy, Sandy, don’t be a water funk. 

Sandy, Sandy, go through the bath!” 

Why “Sandy” I never discovered. Perhaps he 
was a cadet of some former generation who abhorred 
cold water and tried to shirk the early morning cold 
plunge. It was never worth our while to try to es- 
cape it, bitter though it sometimes was. If we did, 
some cadet captain soon got wind of the omission and 
asked pointed questions as to whether or not we had 



6o 


The Sub 


been excused by the doctor’s orders. If we had not 
been specially exempted, there was trouble. 

So when the reveille sounded we were out of our 
beds on the instant to seize a towel and a few minor 
garments to join in the wild stampede for the bath- 
rooms. Having immersed ourselves with chattering 
teeth, we then dashed back to our dormitories and 
scrambled into our clothes. Time for dressing was 
short, and within twenty minutes of turning out, with 
a satisfactory feeling of warmth coursing through our 
bodies through the contact with the cold water, we 
mustered in the mess-room for cocoa and ship’s bis- 
cuit before starting work. 

Then came an hour’s study in our class-rooms, after 
which, at about 7.45, we fell in in our respective terms 
and were doubled to the mess-room for breakfast by 
our cadet captains. Our progress was not the “steady 
double” of the drill book. It was a most undignified, 
wild, and helter-skelter stampede, followed by a blood- 
thirsty rough and tumble melee round the small door 
of the mess-room, in which, amidst the heavy breath- 
ing and frenzied squeals and imprecations of the com- 
batants, small cadets subsided gently to the deck with 
larger cadets on top of them. People generally were 
trodden upon by any one, clothes were torn, and cas- 
ualties were not infrequent. We behaved like the ani- 
mals in the Zoo at meal times, eventually to arrive in 
our places at the long tables in a generally dishevelled 
condition, while some one rang a gong and a cadet 
captain said grace. Then we fell to. The food was 
good, and for breakfast there was always porridge, 


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61 


with plenty of sugar and milk, rolls and butter, tea or 
coffee, sausages, kippers, eggs, bacon, or any of the 
usual breakfast dishes. 

We could leave the table when we had finished, and 
were left to our own devices until 9 o’clock, when the 
bugle sounded off “Divisions,” and we fell in in terms 
on the “quarter-deck” and were inspected by our lieu- 
tenants. Then followed an orgy of saluting. The 
lieutenant reported us “correct” to the commander, 
who, when he had received all the reports, informed 
the captain. Then the Padre, or “Holy Joe,” as we 
called him, arrived upon the scene in his surplice, 
whereupon the commander gave the order “Off caps!” 
the chaplain gave out the number of a hymn, and we 
sang lustily. Then followed the usual prayers, after 
which we replaced our headgear and were marched off 
to the morning’s work. 

The cycle of work varied periodically, for some of 
the classes would start the day by going to theoretical 
instruction in science, navigation, and the usual school 
subjects. Others would do seamanship, which in- 
cluded signals, knotting and splicing, boxing the com- 
pass, boat pulling, and all the rest of it; while still more 
would go to the engineering workshops, where they did 
practical engineering under the supervision of an engi- 
neer-lieutenant. We were instructed practically how 
to construct and to fit together the various parts of 
steam engines, how to turn steel and brass, to make 
moulds and castings, and many other things which I 
cannot enter into here. In the lecture-room, more- 
over, the engineer officer taught us the theory of the 


62 


The Sub 


business, while occasionally, when we got more profi- 
cient, we were taken out in the steam-boats or torpedo- 
boat attached to the College, and took complete control 
of the engines and boilers, often with most peculiar 
results. At Dartmouth, when we got there, they had 
a destroyer and a turbine, oil-fired torpedo-boat in 
which we actually went to sea for instruction. We 
spent most of the time being seasick. 

We had about four hours work during the morning, 
and at half time we changed round from practical 
work to theory, or vice versa. The break came at 
1 1. 1 5, when there was an interval of a quarter of an 
hour for milk and buns in the mess-room and to give 
us time to collect what books and instruments we re- 
quired for the next instruction. 

At one o’clock came lunch, a repetition of the break- 
fast stampede. This lasted half an hour, and after 
grace each term was doubled out in order of seniority, 
and we were free for half an hour. Instruction simi- 
lar to that of the morning then took place till 4 o’clock, 
at which time came “Evening Quarters,” the same, 
except for the prayers, as the morning “Divisions.” 
Next more buns and more milk in the mess-room, 
after which we changed into flannels for recreation 
lasting till 6.30, by which hour we all had to be inside 
the College. In the dark days of winter we played 
our games immediately after the midday meal and 
went to afternoon instruction at 4.30, while on 
Wednesdays and Saturdays throughout the year we 
did no afternoon school at all. 

The consuming of the milk and buns after Quarters 


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63 


— the buns were sometimes ginger-nuts, while once 
there was nearly a mutiny because they served us out 
with rock-cakes — was often amusing. Everybody was 
naturally anxious to get away to the games as soon as 
possible, and to save time the food and glasses of 
milk were placed ready for us in our places in the 
mess-room. Eagle-eyed stewards kept a homy and 
unsympathetic gaze upon us to see that there was no 
petty pilfering, for both buns and ginger-nuts were 
conveniently portable. 

But even the presence of the stewards did not pre- 
vent occasional forays. A cadet, carrying a mackin- 
tosh, would enter the mess-room rather early and as 
meekly as any lamb. A confederate then deliberately 
started a disturbance in a far corner, and, as the stew- 
ards gravitated in his direction to quell it, he of the 
mackintosh would dart down one side of a long table 
filching buns and biscuits from the plates and cram- 
ming them into the sleeve of his garment, the wrist 
of which was tied with string to form a convenient 
and capacious receptacle. When the lawful owners 
of the food eventually appeared to find their plates 
empty, there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. In- 
deed, the lamentations occasionally developed into 
active strife. But we generally managed to right mat- 
ters by purloining somebody else’s bun while he wasn’t 
looking, and so on, ad infinitum. The chief pilferer 
and his confederate, however, divided their ill-gotten 
booty, and spent the afternoon in a state of gorgeous 
and somnolent repletion. 

The masterly scheme, excellent example of success- 


64 


The Sub 


ful strategy though it usually proved itself, did not 
always work. I still treasure a vivid and joyful recol- 
lection of one young gentleman, who had omitted to 
tie the sleeve of his mackintosh, dashing from the 
mess-room with a trail of ginger-nuts dropping in his 
wake. After him, like a pack of hounds, pounded six 
heavy-footed stewards, grinding the biscuits into dust. 
Presently they started to fall headlong. It was a glad- 
some sight, and we, whooping with delight, joined in 
the chase and fell over the stewards. 

But on the whole I think we were very well behaved. 
It was only during the strawberry season, when they 
sometimes gave us strawberries for tea, that we de- 
manded successive helpings which we couldn’t eat, and, 
with a view to subsequent gluttony, concealed the sur- 
plus in our caps placed conveniently on our knees 
underneath the table. Moreover, it was only very 
occasionally that we flung pats of butter aloft in the 
hope that they might adhere to the ceiling. Some- 
times they did, to detach themselves with amusing 
results when the place got really warm. 

We were allowed to spend the afternoon much as 
we liked, but “loafing” was not countenanced, and at 
evening preparation every cadet had to state how he 
had occupied his afternoon, the information being en- 
tered in a book kept by the cadet captain. The volume, 
moreover, was shown to the lieutenant of the term 
weekly, and if our “logs,” as they were called, were 
not satisfactory, we were compelled to play games. 

There was always cricket and tennis in the summer, 
football of both varieties in the winter, hockey and 


Through the Mill 


65 


the annual sports during the Easter term, and fives 
and racquets at all times. At Dartmouth, too, we 
had our own beagles, certain of the cadets being se- 
lected as “Whips” and wearing the garments suitable 
to this office. The beagles usually met on Saturdays 
during the season, and were very popular, particularly 
if the meet happened to be at some country house 
where refreshments were provided. At one place we 
were given sherry. The results were quite uncontem- 
plated, for certain of the young gentlemen, quite inno- 
cently, gulped it down like ginger-beer. 

Provided we did not go into towns or private 
grounds we were free to roam about the country as we 
pleased, while boating on the Solent and Dart was 
a favourite pastime in the summer. Besides cutters, 
which we were allowed to sail by ourselves, there were 
also five-oared gigs and skiffs for rowing. These 
latter were known as “blue boats,” from their vivid 
ultramarine colour, but nobody was suffered to go 
afloat before he could swim. There were also two 
io-ton yachts in which we went sailing at Osborne, 
and at Dartmouth the larger sailing craft Syren and 
Arrow , in which we occasionally went- outside the 
harbour on half-holidays and were fearfully and won- 
derfully sea-sick. 

The canteens at both Colleges were largely patron- 
ised, and did a thriving business in sweets, ices, pastry, 
buns, biscuits, boiled eggs, cream, jam, mineral waters, 
and all other sorts of “stodge.” The trade was par- 
ticularly brisk on Saturdays, when we received our 
weekly pocket-money of one shilling. But even in the 


66 


The Sub 


canteen the etiquette was very strict, for no junior 
cadet was permitted to be seen at the sixth term end 
of the counter. 

We were not permitted to trespass, naturally, though 
I am sorry to say the official prohibition did not alto- 
gether prevent our doing so. Both at Osborne and at 
Dartmouth there were woods, in the fastnesses of 
which the more senior cadets used to erect huts in 
which they spent their Sunday afternoons, eating, 
smoking forbidden pipes and cigarettes, and holding 
up the junior fellows to ransom. If no satisfactory 
ransom was forthcoming, the junior cadet had either 
to recite, sing a song, or else suffer himself to be tied 
to a tree or be mildly beaten for having “a nasty 
face,” a defiant manner, or something equally trivial. 
But it was never done ill-naturedly. We were never 
really bullied, and our treatment certainly inculcated 
the habit of obedience which is so very necessary in the 
Navy. 

Sometimes we went in search of game. I recollect 
a pond at Osborne, in the centre of which was an 
island. I am perfectly well aware that a fowl is not 
“game,” but marooned on the island we once saw a 
forlorn-looking chicken, and I, the smallest of our 
gang of desperadoes, was selected to procure that 
bird alive or dead. The pond was too deep for wading 
and too cold by far for swimming, so I ferried my 
way across to that island in an antiquated and very 
leaky wooden pig-trough. It was a perilous journey, 
but I carried it through successfully, and after some 
difficulty slaughtered the prey with a catapult and 


Through the Mill 


67 


returned with the corpse. It was a Plymouth Rock, 
an elderly Plymouth Rock, and we concealed it in 
some one’s mackintosh and carried it off in triumph 
to our lair in the woods. There we removed its 
feathers by singeing, and cooked it ov$r a slow fire 
without even troubling to take out its interior. The 
result was not appetising, for when we came to divide 
it the flesh was barely warm, so that even our hardened 
gorges rose in disgust. We procured a junior cadet, 
and ordered him to bury the grisly remains. 

At Dartmouth I was the proud possessor of a Der- 
ringer pistol with which I once nearly shot a sitting 
pheasant in a strictly preserved covert. The sound of 
the report brought a keeper to the scene, so I took to 
my heels. I was nearly caught, but the keeper was 
stout and breathless, and, running like a redshank, 
I got clear away. There would have been wigs on the 
green if I hadn’t. 

By 6.30 in the evenings every one had to be inside 
the College buildings, and at 7 o’clock we had our 
high-tea of cold meat and as much bread, butter, and 
jam as we could conveniently stow. Once a week at 
Dartmouth we had Devonshire cream for this meal, 
and rumour had it that the cream, or the wherewithal 
to purchase it, had been bequeathed long ago by some 
philanthropic old lady who had a weakness for the 
“dear little cadets,” bless her kind old heart! But 
she evidently didn’t know cadets as I knew them. She 
cannot have possessed an orchard anywhere within 
five miles of the College. We never really meant to 
steal of course, but . . . enough said. 


68 


The Sub 


There was an hour’s preparation from 7.30, and 
from half-past eight the band, composed of our serv- 
ants, played on the quarter-deck for half an hour while 
we danced. At 9 came evening prayers, after which 
we doubled to our dormitories and turned in. At 9.30 
came the commander’s rounds and the putting out of 
the lights, and thus ended our day. 


CHAPTER III 


I Go to Sea 

i 

D URING my second year at Osborne, in about 
September, 1908, they took to naming the 
terms after famous British admirals. We, in 
our fifth term, accordingly became known as the “Ex- 
mouths,^ ” while the sixth, first, second, third, and 
fourth, in the order named, became respectively the 
“St. Vincents,” “Drakes,” “Blakes,” “Hawkes,” and 
“Grenville’s.” We retained these names right through 
our time of training. 

I cannot go into further details of our life at Dart- 
mouth, beyond saying that it was the Osborne work 
over again, but on more advanced lines. In April, 
1911, however, at the age of 17^2, I passed my final 
examinations, and proved myself to have a sufficient 
knowledge of mathematics, including navigation and 
geometrical drawing, physics and chemistry, mechanics 
and applied mechanics with laboratory work ; engineer- 
ing, with workshop practice and mechanical drawing; 
seamanship in its many branches; French; English 
grammar and composition; English literature; His- 
tory, naval and otherwise ; geography ; drill and physi- 
cal training to make me a fit and proper person to 
69 


70 


The Sub 


be retained in His Majesty's Service and to learn still 
more. My knowledge was not really very profound, 
and looking back on the subjects I was supposed to 
have a working acquaintance with is rather perturbing, 
but spread out over four years they were not so for- 
midable as they sound. 

Then, with the remainder of the batch, I left Dart- 
mouth for good and all, and in May joined the training 
cruiser Somerset , where, through unforeseen circum- 
stances, I remained without a break until the following 
December. 

During our time in the cruiser our school work still 
went on, but we had far more practical instruction 
than formerly, at the hands of the officers of the ship, 
in seamanship, navigation, pilotage, gunnery, torpedo 
work, electricity, and engineering. We also learnt 
something of the routine, management, and interior 
economy of a man-of-war, but, above all, it made us 
used to life afloat and afforded us a much-needed 
chance of finding our sea legs before we went to sea 
as midshipmen in the Fleet. Never shall I forget the 
awful rolling and pitching of the ship, or my own 
feelings, in our first really heavy weather. Most of 
us were in the last throes of misery, and lay about with 
pea-green faces, to stagger on deck at frequent inter- 
vals for a certain mournful purpose. But after a 
month or so on board we were getting better, and 
by the end of our time had become tolerably good 
sailors. 

Our cruise was not uneventful. We first spent 
some weeks in Norway and then, crossing the Atlantic, 


I Go to Sea 


7i 


visited North America. It was here that we had the 
first real excitement of our lives, for while we were 
at Halifax we one day received information by wire- 
less to the effect that the Canadian cruiser Clytia had 
run ashore in a bay some distance off. My memory 
is very hazy as to the exact circumstances, for I 
played a very minor part in the operations, but I well 
remember the thrill which pervaded our ship when the 
news became known, and we hastily raised steam to 
go to the stranded vessel’s assistance. 

The captain and commander, assisted by the navi- 
gator with his charts and tide-tables, held earnest con- 
sultations as to the means of salvage to be employed, 
while some of the lieutenants went ashore in charge 
of parties of men to beg, borrow, or steal what salvage 
plant and spare hawsers the dockyard could provide. 
It was a motley collection of stuff when it did come 
on board, but some of it was serviceable. 

The ship, meanwhile, hummed like a beehive. The 
men, supervised by the officers and assisted by us ca- 
dets, were put on to the job of unreeling the great 
6 l / 2 and 5j4-inch wire hawsers and flaking them down 
on the quarter-deck in readiness for taking in tow. 
Messengers ran to and fro. The carpenter and his 
gang were busy providing shores, stoppers, and every- 
thing else they could think of, while our poor old 
boatswain, the dearest old soul imaginable and a great 
friend of mine, was in a state verging on dementia. 

His alliteration was perfect. 

“Them . . . burglars!” he confided to me, shrug- 
ging his shoulders with an air of great resignation. 


72 


The Sub 


“Them perishin’ thieves ! This’ll be the death o’ me !” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Deadeye,” I sympa- 
thised. “What’s been happening?” 

“Happenin’!” he snorted. “Why, if the Comman- 
der wants anythin’ — 'Go to that silly old fool of a 
bos’un,’ he says. So they comes, whole hordes of ’em, 
and surep’ously denoodes my storeroom o’ rope, can- 
vas, spare collision mats, taller, spun-yam, an’ every- 
thin’ I’ve got. Lord, sir! You’d think they wanted to 
put up a row o’ houses from the gear they’ve took ! 

“Ah, yes,” he went on, seeing a party of us grin- 
ning at him. “It’s all very well for you young gen- 
nel’men to laugh like you do, but when I asks this 
gang o’ pirates what the ’ell they’re thinkin’ of, they 
says it’s Commander’s orders. Commander’s orders is 
all very well,” he continued, wagging his grizzled old 
head mournfully. “Commander’s orders won’t square 
my perishin’ store accounts. ’Stead o’ takin’ my pen- 
sion next year as me an’ my wife sincerely hoped, I 
shall be ’ung, drawn, and quartered. That’s what they 
does to bos’uns, an’ the Commander’ll bust out laugh- 
in’ when he hears of it same as you young gents is 
doin’ now. Lord, Lord! The world is crool hard!” 

Our guffaws were all the louder, and Mr. Deadeye, 
bereft of even our sympathy, went off grumbling under 
his beard like a semi-active volcano. He didn’t want 
sympathy, really, for he was as efficient a boatswain 
as had ever become a warrant officer. Moreover, he 
loved the Commander, and the Commander swore by 
him. 

We left harbour, and in due course arrived on the 


I Go to Sea 


73 


spot where the Clytia was ashore, but as we were 
manoeuvring to close her and take her in tow, there 
came a thud deep down below the waterline, a series 
of crashes, and we too found ourselves hard and fast 
on an uncharted pinnacle rock. 

I will not attempt to describe the scene, but several 
weary hours passed before we finally got off on the 
rising tide, a damaged ship. 

But, damaged or not damaged, we had to help the 
Clytia , and passed our hawsers across to her and made 
them fast. Then we worked our engines and, after 
parting several wires, eventually plucked her free of 
her rocky bed and towed her slowly back to Halifax. 

The Clytia practically required a new bottom, and 
our injuries necessitated a sojourn of thirteen weeks 
in the dockyard and a postponement of our cruise to 
the West Indies. 

However, we cadets had no cause for complaint. 
We enjoyed our time at Halifax, and though our noses 
were kept assiduously to the grindstone, we had far 
more leave ashore than we should otherwise have got. 
The residents were very hospitable, and here it was 
that I embarked on my first love affair with a young 
lady of eighteen called Sarah, with whom I exchanged 
photographs and corresponded for six months after 
our departure. She was a very pretty girl, with blue 
eyes, corn-coloured hair, and an American accent. I 
loved her very dearly, and she said she loved me ; but 
a year later she married a solicitor. After all, I could 
hardly blame her. One cannot do much on a cadet's 
pay of one shilling per diem , particularly in a place 


74 


The Sub 


where they think in dollars worth four and twopence. 

We eventually arrived in England again in Decem- 
ber, and, having passed more exams, left the old Som- 
erset for ever. 

At last I was an officer in His Majesty’s Fleet, or 
rather I should be on J&nuary 15th, from which our 
first appointments to seagoing ships would be dated. 
I was entitled to wear white patches on my collar and 
a short, brass-mounted dirk at my side. In short, 
I was a '‘snotty,” a full-blown midshipman ! I might 
have been Sir John Jellicoe from the airs I gave 
myself. 

I cast my cadet’s uniform, and when I went home 
on leave just before Christmas I affected a nautical 
roll, talked airily about “my first shipwreck,” and ap- 
peared before my astonished parents in all the glory of 
an immaculate plain clothes suiting supplied by Mr. 
Slieve. 

“How you’ve grown, David dear,” said my mother, 
looking me up and down with happy eyes when she 
had finished hugging me. “You’re almost as tall as 
your father. I don’t like your clothes, though.” 

“Not like ’em,” I asked disappointedly, gazing 
down at the crease in my trousers, my lavender socks, 
and a pair of the sauciest brown brogues. “Lord, 
mother, what’s up with ’em?” 

“I like you so much better in your pretty uniform, 
darling.” 

“Uniform!” I snorted. “I can’t possibly wear that 
now. I’m not a beastly cadet!” 

“Stupid nonsense!” growled my father good-na- 


I Go to Sea 


75 


turedly. “I suppose you’ll come down on me for 
a brand-new outfit before you go to sea, what?” 

“Bet your life, father,” said I. “And, by the way, 
could you let me have ten bob to go on with? I’m 
devilish hard up!” 

My mother opened her mouth to expostulate and my 
father spluttered. They both seemed rather aston- 
ished; but luckily father had no change, so I got a 
sovereign. 

It was during that leave that I received payment 
for my first real literary effort. It never saw the light 
of day in actual print, and was merely a letter to my 
Aunt Caroline, in which I gave a lurid description of 
our adventures. 

“My dear David,” came her reply. “I was much 
thrilled and interested to read your account of the ter- 
rible shipwreck, though of course I had heard of it 
from your mother. What a time you must have had, 
and how dangerous a sailor’s life can be. I have long 
been meaning to make you a little present as you have 
done so well in the Navy, so here it is. I hope you 
will find it useful. Mrs. Chuggins, my old cook, has 
given notice, as she is about to be married for the 
second time to the man who keeps the livery stables 
near the station. The vicar’s second daughter, Ruth, 
who often asks after you, has a bad cold in her head, 
poor girl. I have just had wire-netting put on the top 
of all the garden walls to keep the cats out, they make 
such a terrible noise at nights. Ask your mother to 


76 


The Sub 


look out for a cook and to let me know if she hears 
of one. 

“When shall I see you again? 

“Your affectionate aunt, 

“Caroline.” 

I didn’t quite gather how Mrs. Chuggins could 
marry the same person twice, but the little present was 
a crackling, brand-new note for £5, a sum I had never 
handled before, let alone possessed. 

“Put it in the bank, David dear,” my mother 
advised. 

“I’ll be jiggered if I do,” said I rebelliously. 
Shipwrecks aren’t always so bad as they are 
painted. 

11 

Captain Playfair was as good as his word, for soon 
after Christmas I received my official appointment to 
his ship, the battleship Pericles , in the shape of a bluish 
sheet of thick, printed foolscap. 

“C. W. By Command of the Commissioners for Exe- 
cuting the Office of Lord High Admiral of the 
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ire- 
land, &c. 

To Mr. David Munro. 

The Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty hereby appoint 

you Midshipman 

of His Majesty's Ship “Pericles” 

and direct you to repair on board that Ship at Portland. 


I Go to Sea 


77 


Your appointment is to take effect from the 
15th January, 1912. 

You are to acknowledge the receipt of this 
appointment forthwith, addressing your letter to the 

Commanding Officer, H.M.S. “Pericles,” 
taking care to furnish your address. 

By Command of their Lordships, 
Admiralty, S.W. W. Graham Greene.” 

It was my first appointment to a ship. Its arrival 
punctuated another red-letter day in my life, and that 
sheet of bluish paper will be preserved in my archives. 
Who in the Navy has not been guilty of a similar 
conceit ? 

I received my instructions as to joining in due 
course, and half-past eight in the evening of January 
15th found me, with my sea-chest, an uniform tin 
case, portmanteau, suit case, cricket bag, and golf 
clubs, standing on Weymouth pier waiting for a boat 
to take me off to the ship. I had travelled down 
from home in plain clothes, but had changed into 
uniform at an hotel. 

It was a raw and blustery evening, with occasional 
showers of heavy rain. I was cold and rather miser- 
able, and when, after waiting for twenty minutes, I at 
last saw the red, green, and white lights of a steam- 
boat coming in through the narrow entrance of the 
harbour, I was very thankful. She came alongside 
with a swish and a roar from her propeller as it went 
full speed astern to check the way, and then, from 
her slender grey hull, fat bell-topped single funnel, 


78 


The Sub 


engine-room casings, and little cabin aft, I could see 
she was a Service picquet-boat. 

An oilskinned, sea-booted figure with the water 
running off him in streams left the wheel and clam- 
bered slowly up the steps. 

“Are you the new snotty for the Pericles?” I was 
asked gruffly, as the new arrival eyed me and my 
belongings in no very friendly manner in the dim 
light of a solitary gas lamp. 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Is your name Munro?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, why the dooce can’t you join the ship at a 
reasonable hour instead of dragging us out at this 
time o’ night?” he demanded brusquely. “D’you think 
that we senior snotties have got nothing better to do 
than to go dancing attendance on warts who’ve never 
been to sea in their lives?” 

“I’m awfully sorry,” I stammered nervously. “I 
was told to be down here at half past ...” 

“Of course you were. But I’ve been running my 
blessed boat ever since six o’clock this morning, and 
it wasn’t till a quarter past eight that they remem- 
bered about you and called us away in a hurry. I’ve 
been on the go the whole bloomin’ day, and the only 
stand easy I do get is spoilt because you choose to 
arrive at this ungodly hour. It’s about the limit! 
Lord! I don’t know what the dooce the Navy’s com- 
ing to!” 

“I’m very sorry,” I apologised. “But it really wasn’t 
my fault. I was told ...” 


I Go to Sea 


79 


“Oh, shut up !” growled the other, with a sudden 
smile. “I know it’s not your fault. I wish it was, 
and then I'd . . . Lord!” he broke off. “I say, is 
this all your gear?” 

“Yes,” I meekly told him. 

“You’ll have the commander on your track if you 
don’t watch it. Didn’t you know you were only al- 
lowed one trunk besides your chest?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you’ll jolly soon find out,” he replied, going 
to the side of the jetty and bellowing for some one 
called Coggins. 

“Sir?” came a voice from the depths. 

“Send a couple o’ hands up here to take this officer’s 
gear into the boat,” he ordered. “Bear a hand about 
it.” 

Two seamen waddled up the steps, fastened on to 
my sea-chest, and with much grunting and blowing 
carried it down into the stern-sheets of the picquet- 
boat. This done, they returned for the other things. 

“I’m awfully sorry to give every one all this trou- 
ble,” I apologised once more. 

“That’s all right,” he answered more graciously, 
removing and wringing out the sodden muffler round 
his neck. “I wasn’t really angry with you ; but it does 
make one a bit ratty about the temper, it’s so beastly 

wet. I’m Thorp, and you’ll be in the same division as 

** 

me. 

We went on talking, but before long our amicable 
conversation was interrupted by a splash, a howl of 
dismay, and a spluttering, gasping sound, accompanied 


8o 


The Sub 


by some profanity. Then a wild shriek of laughter. 

“Charley's Aunt!" exclaimed a voice, with every 
indication of enjoyment. “ 'Ere's old Bill bin an' 
fallen in th’ ditch !” 1 

Thorp and I went to the edge of the pier and looked 
over. It was low water, and the last few steps were 
covered with thick seaweed, and “Bill,” the A.B. who 
was carrying my golf clubs and cricket bag, had appar- 
ently slipped badly and tobogganed down the slope. 
At any rate, he now sat on the bottom step with his 
legs in the sea, anathematising the world in general 
and midshipmen's luggage in particular. My cricket 
bag nestled alongside him, half in and half out of 
the water. The golf clubs, being weighty, were no- 
where visible. 

“Carn’t you blokes stop larfin’ ?” demanded the dis- 
gruntled victim plaintively. “Cam't you come an' give 
a bloke an 'elpin' 'and 'stead o' bustin’ yerselves up 
top there ? I’ve tore me oilskin breeches and lorst me 
sou’wester. Likewise I've 'urt me stern somethin' 
crool, 'sides barkin' me shins an’ nearly knockin' me 
front teeth 'art. I reckons it’ll take a bottle o' beer in 
th' gunroom pantry to make me well agen !” 

“That’s a hint for you, Munro,” observed my com- 
panion, trying hard to conceal his amusement. “You 
take my tip and tell the cox’n to take the whole lot of 
'em down to the pantry when we get on board. It’ll 
make 'em love you for ever afterwards.” 

“Of course I will,” I agreed: 

“Come on,” said the snotty, walking gingerly down 
ir The "ditch” or "pond,” naval terms for the sea. 


I Go to Sea 


81 


the steps. “We’ll be getting back. Evans, if you’ve 
finished your bathe, you’d better get back to the boat.” 

“I’m lookin’ for those there gawf sticks, sir,” an- 
swered the recumbent one, splashing aimlessly about 
in the water. 

“Never mind them,” said I, knowing full well that 
they were at the bottom of the harbour and that I 
should never see them again. 

“One thing less, at any rate,” said Thorp unper- 
turbably. “Besides, golf’s a rotten game. You’d 
much better play hockey.” 

Evans, groaning dismally, rose to his feet, flung my 
dripping cricket bag into the boat, and clambered on 
board. “I’m ’urt somethin’ crool!” he reiterated for 
my benefit. “I reckons I shall ’ave to see the doctor 
when I gits aboard.” 

“Tell the cox’n about the beer,” Thorp whispered 
in my ear. 

I did so, in a loud voice. 

“Thank you, sir. I don’t mind if we does,” said 
Coggins, drawing in his breath appreciatively. 

Even Evans became a little more cheerful. 

“Let go forward! Let go aft!” Thorp ordered, 
taking his place at the wheel. “Munro, you’d better 
get down aft in the cabin if you don’t want a wet 
shirt. It’s blowing a bit outside.” 

I took his advice. 

“All gone, sir!” 

The engine-room gong clanged once, and the boat 
shook as the screw revolved with the helm hard over. 

Thorp was right about the weather. Outside the 


82 


The Sub 


harbour it certainly was “blowing a bit,” and to me 
it seemed more like a raging hurricane. The boat 
rolled and pitched drunkenly. Sheets of spray flew 
high over the funnel, and seas came washing along 
the deck, until even the cabin where I took shelter 
was nearly knee-deep in water. The men on deck 
must have been soaked, but they drove her at full speed 
in spite of it. But it did not last long, for a quarter 
of an hour later I was climbing the accommodation 
ladder of the Pericles. 

“Midshipman Munro, come on board to join, sir,” 
said I to the officer of the watch, saluting the quar- 
terdeck as I stepped over the gangway. 

“Right. Wait half a minute and I’ll take you to 
the commander. Picquet-boat !” 

“Sir?” 

“Moor your boat up to the starboard boom and 
draw fires. Steam by six o’clock in the morning.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

“Come with me, Munro.” 

I followed the officer across the broad quarterdeck, 
down a ladder, along a passageway shimmering with 
white enamel and lined with rifles in their racks, until 
we presently halted outside a curtained doorway at 
which the lieutenant knocked. 

“Come in!” 

“New midshipman come to join, sir,” he said, push- 
ing me inside. 

The commander, a cheery-looking little man with a 
fat red face and twinkling brown eyes, was writing 
at his desk. He glanced up as I entered. 


I Go to Sea 


83 


“You’re Munro, I suppose?” he greeted me, swing- 
ing round in his chair and looking me up and down. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“All right, boy, don’t be frightened,” he went on, 
laughing at my nervousness. “I’m not going to eat 
you. What sort of a trip did you have in the picquet- 
boat?” 

“Pretty wet, sir.” 

“ ’Um,” he grunted, reaching for his pipe and strik- 
ing a match. “The wind’s . . . (puff, puff) . . . 
been in the sou’west — blow this pipe — for nearly a 
week.” 

“Yes, sir,” I agreed. 

He started to empty the offending pipe with the butt 
end of his pen. 

“Don’t wonder it won’t draw. The rotten thing’s 
choked up,” he observed, flinging it into the waste- 
paper basket. “Halliday?” 

“Sir?” 

“Send him down to the gun-room and turn him 
over to the senior midshipman. You’ll have to-mor- 
row to sling your hammock 1 and to get used to the 
ship, youngster,” he went on, turning to me. “You’ll 
start in on your ordinary work the day after to-mor- 
row. That’s all. Good night.” 

I retired. 

Thus, by paying my footing with one set of brand- 
new golf clubs and six bottles of gunroom beer did I 
join His Majesty’s battleship Pericles. 

1 To “sling your hammock,” i.e. to be given time to settle 
down in new surroundings. 


CHAPTER IV 


H.M.S. Pericles 

T HE Pericles, or P eric kies, as her ship’s company 
called her, was one of the very last of the pre- 
Dreadnought type of battleships. She and her 
sister ship the Lord Howe were the only two vessels 
of their class in the British, or in any other, Navy, 
and they had a speed of about eighteen knots and car- 
ried the respectable armament of four 12-inch, ten 
9‘2’s, and a number of smaller guns. The really 
strange thing about them, however, was their shape. 

They looked unduly short and bulbous, even for 
battleships. They had tripod masts aft and ordinary 
pole masts forward, with, piled up between them, 
enormous flying-decks or superstructures reaching 
nearly to the heavens, with a couple of stumpy fun- 
nels sticking up out of the middle. Their masts, due 
to the sloping effect given by the after legs of the tri- 
pod, always looked from a distance to be falling in 
towards each other, and so strange was their tout 
ensemble, that it even excited the curiosity of Mr. 
Gainston Kirkmount, the well-known First Lord of 
the Admiralty, for on one occasion, when he happened 
to be visiting in the Admiralty yacht the harbour in 
which we lay, he paid us a surprise visit at half-past 
84 


H.M.S. Pericles 85 

ten in the morning and demanded to be shown all over 
the Pericles. 

“Good morning, Captain Playfair,” he said, run- 
ning up the accommodation ladder in his usual ener- 
getic manner. “Pve come to have a look at your ship. 
She's the most peculiar-looking ship I've ever seen!” 

She was, but one could see from the look on the 
skipper's face that he hardly took the remark as a 
compliment. He loved the Pericles , peculiar though 
she may have been. Moreover, he had arranged to 
play golf with a brother Captain that very morning 
at eleven o'clock, and had been forced to put it off. 

“I shall be delighted to show you over the cleanest 
ship in the squadron, sir,” he grunted. 

So Mr. Kirkmount, asking innumerable questions, 
was trotted round. He was told the size of our guns, 
the weight of their shell, and the thickness of our side 
armour. He enquired the make of our boilers and the 
manufacturer of our stockless anchors. He even 
stopped Mr. Bobbett, our Boatswain, and wrought 
that worthy old gentleman into a state of blushing 
confusion by subjecting him in public to a rapid cross- 
examination as to whether or not he was married, 
how many children he possessed, and where he lived. 

Mr. Bobbett confessed to one wife, five small Bob- 
betts, and a nice little house and garden at Stamshaw, 
near Portsmouth, whereupon the First Lord rather 
took the wind out of his sails by observing that the 
stories he had heard to the effect that warrant officers 
could barely live upon their naval pay were evidently 
false. A man with a wife, five children, and other 


86 


The Sub 


luxuries could hardly be poverty-stricken, and Mr. 
Bobbett’s burly figure and healthy red face certainly 
failed to give one the impression of semi-starvation. 

“And what is this place?” Mr. Kirkmount wanted 
to know, halting before a door in the superstructure 
after having flattened out the Boatswain. 

“That is the gymnastic store,” the Captain told 
him, “where we keep the vaulting horse, the horizontal 
bar, and other gymnastic gear.” 

“And do the men do gymnastics every day?” 

“Regularly,” said Captain Playfair with a nod. 

“And who is this?” demanded the inquisitive po- 
tentate, flinging open the door and pointing an ac- 
cusing finger at a figure attired in nothing but a singlet 
slumbering peacefully on a pile of soft gymnastic mats. 

The skipper, with rage in his heart and a frown on 
his face, glared at the drowsy one over the First Lord’s 
shoulder as though to wake him by will power alone. 
But not a bit of it; the tired gentleman still snored 
peacefully on. 

It was the Commander who came to the rescue. 

“Oh ! him, sir ?” he said airily. “That’s the Physical 
Training Instructor.” 

“And why is he not instructing someone ?” enquired 
the Ruler of the King’s Navee. 

The Commander was quite equal to the occasion. 

“He kept the middle watch last night,” he an- 
swered glibly, on the spur of the moment, and with- 
out the flicker of an eyelid. “We have been rather 
short of responsible petty officers lately, so some . . 


H.M.S. Pericles 87 

“Ah! I understand. You mean he is allowed to 
make up for his loss of sleep in the daytime?” 

“Precisely, sir?” 

“By the way, Captain Playfair,” came the next ques- 
tion, “do any of the seamen ever wear pyjamas?” 

“Pm sure I don't know!” exclaimed the owner, 
rather purple about the face. “They're not supplied 
by the Government, anyhow.” 

Mr. Kirkmount’s companion, himself a naval offi- 
cer, burst out into a hoarse chuckle of amusement, 
while at the same moment the P.T.I., 1 hearing the 
sound of voices, opened his eyes dreamily and saw 
the galaxy of gold lace and “brass hats” gazing in 
upon him. 

I, the skipper’s “doggie,” or A.D.C., could just see 
the man’s face from my place in the rear of the little 
crowd clustered round the doorway, and never shall 
I forget his first look of utter amazement, followed 
by one of absolute horror, as he realised the state of 
affairs. The First Lord’s features had appeared too 
often in the illustrated newspapers for him to pass 
unrecognised. But the P.T.I. was determined to be 
polite, singlet or no singlet. He could hardly salute, 
so he merely sprang to his feet and stood strictly to 
attention. 

Mr. Kirkmount fixed him with a piercing gaze, and 
opened his mouth to ask a question, when the Com- 
mander, realising that a cross-examination of the cul- 
prit himself might prove distinctly awkward, adroitly 
broke in and changed the subject. 

1 P.T.I. — Physical Training Instructor, 


88 


The Sub 


“By the way, sir,” he interrupted hastily, winking 
at the Captain who seemed on the verge of apoplexy, 
“we quite forgot to show you the bakery. I always 
think the bakery is the most interesting place in the 
ship. It has a steam oven, and an electric machine for 
mixing the dough, and ...” 

“Very interesting indeed,” the skipper corroborated 
in a growl. 

“Ah, yes, the bakery,” nodded the First Lord. 
“Take me to it. I am always interested in the men’s 
victualling arrangements. It’s wonderful to think of 
the improvements which have been brought in within 
the last few years. Now five years ago the sailors 
never got fresh bread every day at sea, did they?” 

So the procession moved on and the situation was 
saved, but it was a very long time before the P.T.I. 
heard the last of the rough side of the Commander’s 
tongue. He had hardly kept a midle watch in his life, 
and at half-past ten in the forenoon he should have 
been taking the cooks’ mates and officers’ stewards at 
physical drill. Instead of that he had delegated this 
duty to his assistant, and was discovered, by the First 
Lord of the Admiralty of all people, asleep on his 
own gymnastic mats in much the same attire as that 
in which he had been born. 

But I am digressing. I am endeavouring to relate 
my own nautical experiences, not those of a First Lord 
of the Admiralty. To return to our ship. 

The Pericles, in spite of her ungainly appearance, 
was one of the most comfortable ships in which I 
have ever served. The accommodation for her offi- 


H.M.S. Pericles 


89 


cers was all that could be desired, and the gunroom, 
which naturally interested me the most, was a large 
airy place on the port side of the lower deck aft. It 
must have measured some thirty feet by twenty, or 
thereabouts, and had four scuttles in the side of the 
ship a few feet above the waterline. Of course they 
had always to be closed at sea, even in the finest .of 
weather, but we could open them in harbour. So we 
were far better off than in some super-Dreadnoughts, 
where the gun-rooms had only a small skylight over- 
head to let in fresh air and daylight, so that the elec- 
tric lights burned day and night and most of the air 
was of the “potted” variety, or driven in through ven- 
tilating shafts by fans. 

The walls and ceiling of our happy home were of 
the usual white enamel, rather grimy in parts, and 
to relieve the bare monotony the members of the mess 
had purchased pictures, most of them of beautiful 
ladies in rather neglige raiment. There was the usual 
furniture, two long tables flanked by cushioned lockers 
on one side and padded forms at the other; the in- 
evitable lockers overhead near the roof in which we 
were supposed to keep books, but really concealed our 
pots of jam and pickles; a solid mahogany sideboard 
and bookcase; some cupboards; a letter rack, notice 
board, and rack for dirks; and a large stove. We also 
possessed cretonne curtains for the door and scuttles, 
a basket chair or two, a gramophone, a pianola and 
piano combined, some rugs, and a couple of woebe- 
gone-looking plants in brass pots to alleviate the bare- 
ness of the long tables with their red and black Serv- 


90 


The Sub 


ice tablecloths. Under the table reposed the beer bar- 
rel. It sometimes leaked. 

The cretonne curtains were frequently in need of a 
visit to a laundry, while the pianola, purchased on 
what we called the “everlasting payment system,” was 
long past its early youth. It had been obtained soon 
after the ship commissioned and became our property 
soon after I joined. Some time later, finding it to be 
suffering from chronic asthma, we tried to dispose of 
it. A dealer in such things was therefore summoned 
on board, but the instrument was in such a deplorable 
state that £10 was the most he would offer. Amongst 
other defects, he explained, the strings were ruined 
and its interior was full of “foreign matter.” 

T really don’t wonder at his verdict, for we had 
frequently pulled the whole contraption to bits to see 
why it wouldn’t work, while more often than once 
I saw it used as a convenient receptacle for coffee 
dregs and the contents of ash trays. Once, in a hilari- 
ous mood on his birthday, Rawson, our Sub-Lieuten- 
ant, emptied half a bottle of stuffed olives into it to 
“ginger the old gal up.” So on the whole I don’t 
really marvel at the dealer turning up his nose. The 
wonder was that the pianola could be induced to pro- 
duce music of any kind. It was a long-suffering in- 
strument. 

The brass pots on the table were bent and battered, 
as they were frequently used as helmets by the “crabs,” 
or junior midshipmen, when those young gentlemen 
were forced to indulge in gladiatorial combats on 


H.M.S. Pericles 


9i 


guest nights for the delectation of their seniors and 
betters. 

But we were a very well-conducted mess on the 
whole, and Rawson, the president, ruled us, the junior 
members, with a rod of iron. Sometimes the “warts,” 
as we were called, were forced to kneel on the form 
and to smell a certain spot on the tablecloth, while the 
Sub, a husky fellow, operated with a pliable cane on 
the then most prominent portion of our anatomy. At 
the time we thought Rawson was a bit of a beast, 
but now that I have passed the exalted rank of Sub- 
Lieutenant myself, I understand what little perishers 
snotties really are, and have come to realise that he 
was very just. 

Of course, beating in any shape or form, since it 
might degenerate into bullying in wrong hands, was 
strictly forbidden by the regulations. But Rawson 
never punished us without reason, and looking back on 
it I know that the painful “half-dozens” I sometimes 
received did me all the good in the world. At any rate, 
I am tolerably certain that I deserved a good deal 
more than I ever got. 

Besides Rawson we had two other “one stripers” in 
the gunroom, Nichols, the Engineer-Sub-Lieutenant, 
and Driver, the Assistant Paymaster. 

Nichols was a very quiet, studiously inclined fel- 
low, short and very muscular, with black hair gen- 
erally worn rather long, a brown roving eye, and a 
pale complexion. When he wasn’t on watch in the 
engine-room he was generally to be found in his cabin 
writing long letters to his fiancee and reading books 


92 


The Sub 


on ornithology. He rarely went ashore, and then only 
to play golf or football, but, like most quiet people, 
his lively moments were very lively. Sometimes, when 
we had a Rugby scrum in the gunroom after dinner, 
one would see old Nichols flat on the deck, shrieking 
with laughter and minus half his clothes, with a pile 
of about a dozen snotties on top of him. We all loved 
him, for he was always so sympathetic when we got 
into trouble, and always so ready to help us. 

Driver I never really cared for, and I was no ex- 
ception to the general rule, for he got on everybody’s 
nerves, including those of the Fleet Paymaster. He 
had once been a Secretary to the Captain (D) com- 
manding a destroyer flotilla, and never tired of trying 
to assert his superiority and referring in our presence 
to the days “when I was a Secretary, don’t you know.” 

Moreover, he took care to inform us that account- 
ant work in a big ship was utterly derogatory to his 
dignity and capability. He intended to become a Sec- 
retary to a Flag Officer, “the only job in our branch 
worth going in for,” and it did not please us a little 
bit to hear a fellow running down his own branch of 
the Service. 

No, Percival Driver was a callow youth and what 
we referred to as “a nasty bit of work.” He was tall, 
fair-haired, and slim, and his huge languishing blue 
eyes earned for him the nickname of “Goo-goo.” He 
never played games, always went ashore in patent 
leather boots, oiled hair, immaculate clothes, and the 
very last word in collars and ties, and fancied himself 
very much as a ladies’ man. He attended more tea 




H.M.S. Pericles 


93 


parties and dances than were really wholesome for 
one so young, imagined that he had only to look at a 
girl to captivate her, and had a horrible trick of re- 
ferring to women as “the dear things.” 

Rawson, his very antithesis, detested him cordially, 
chiefly because he wore silk socks, used scent, and was 
such an inveterate “poodle-faker.” 

But, thank goodness, our other officers of the ac- 
countant branch were not like Goo-goo. The old 
Fleet Paymaster, John Tanner, was the kindest old 
soul imaginable, and when the time came for us snot- 
ties to go on long leave we never had a penny in our 
pockets and always went to him for an advance of pay 
for our travelling expenses. 

“Money,” he used to say, looking at us over his 
glasses. “What do you young limbs of Satan want 
money for?” 

We told him. 

“ ’Um,” he grunted, turning over the sheets of the 
enormous pay-book or ledger, or whatever else it was 
he kept, and looking at the entries. “Look at this? 
Look at it! You come to me for money. How can 
you have money? By the time your mess bills are 
taken out of what's due to you, you'll all be in red 
ink!'' 1 

One certainly cannot do much on pay of one and 
ninepence per diem, plus an allowance of £50 a year 
from one's people, however economical one may be. 
In fact, by the time we had paid our mess bills, serv- 

1 When a man is in debt to the Crown a notation is always 
made in red ink against his name in the ledger. 


94 


The Sub 


ants, washing, and other necessary expenses there was 
rarely anything much left for riotous living. So we 
were very glum. 

But John Tanner was soft-hearted, and after growl- 
ing at us for our extravagance and assuring us that our 
expensive habits must inevitably land us in the work- 
house, he sighed deeply, polished his glasses with a 
silk handkerchief, and opened the safe. 

“You shall have thirty shillings apiece and not a 
penny more,” he observed, glaring at us through his 
bushy eyebrows. “Not another stiver shall you get 
out of me ! It’s meself that’s responsible for it, mind 
you, and if you don’t pay me back inside a month 
there’ll be the deuce to pay all round.” 

So we departed, highly jubilant, and the same little 
comedy took place every time we were granted long 
leave. We were always an impecunious lot. 

There were fifteen of us midshipmen. Taking us 
all round I think we were a pretty average lot. I 
cannot describe the whole bunch, but Turley, the 
senior, was a tall thin fellow who took life very seri- 
ously. He was a thorough “x chaser,” and anything 
he did he did well, but was so busy mugging up for 
his exams that he didn’t worry much about us crabs, 
provided we were out of the bathroom in the morn- 
ings by the time he appeared. 

Johnny Hungerford came next. He was fat, red- 
faced, and rather a comic character, with a decided 
bent for smashing up the bows of his picquet-boat by 
ramming flagships, accommodation ladders, and jet- 
ties. He was usually under stoppage of leave for these 


H.M.S. Pericles 


95 


crimes, until at last the Commander became so tired 
of him that he was dismissed from the picquet-boat 
and put in charge of one of the^sailing cutters. 

But the very first time he went away in her he 
sailed the boat under our lower boom and brought 
the mainmast down with a crash, while the Command- 
er, purple with rage, danced upon the quarterdeck. 

"Is there anything you can do without smashing 
things up?” he enquired frigidly, when Hungerford 
eventually came on board. 

The snotty thought for a minute. “I don’t know, 
sir,” he stammered at last. 

“Nor do I,” snorted the Commander, swinging his 
telescope. “The carpenters of this ship are always 
busy repairing your damage. Do you go on like this at 
home ?” 

“Oh no, sir. They don’t mind what I do there!” 

“All the more fools them,” grunted the Bloke . 1 
“The sooner you pull yourself together and try to 
learn, the better it will be. Meanwhile, you will keep 
watch and watch 2 until the carpenters have made a 
new mast for the second cutter.” 

Poor old Hungerford! He was always in trouble, 
but was an excellent fellow in charge of men and 
such a rattling good messmate. His comic songs set 
us all roaring with laughter during our gunroom sing- 
songs, and his impersonation of George Robey — rather 

1 The Commander of a ship is always known on the lower 
deck as “the Bloke.’’ 

a “Watch and watch,” i.e. watch on and watch off. 


96 


The Sub 


a corpulent George Robey — were the absolute limit. 
We all loved him. 

But poor Johnny is dead now. He was the Sub of 
a destroyer at Jutland, and when his ship was sunk 
during the night attacks on the German fleet and her 
people took to the water with life-saving rafts, life- 
belts, and pieces of wreckage, Johnny, though wound- 
ed, went with them. I heard afterwards that it was 
he who kept up the survivors’ spirit through the long, 
awful night in the water. He assured them that help 
would come in the morning, and help did come. But 
when the rescuing destroyer appeared John Hunger- 
ford was not there. Instead, a badly wounded, un- 
conscious A.B. was found lashed to the float in the 
place where the Sub had last been seen. 

Thorp, my friend of the picquet-boat, came next in 
order of seniority, and then the immaculate George 
Carstairs, a very tired member of society who was 
even too tired to write letters. He had more money 
than was really good for him, and conducted his cor- 
respondence by telegram, until at last things reached 
such a pitch that he was receiving as many as ten tele- 
grams a day. 

“Private telegram for Carstairs,” would come sig- 
nal after signal from the depot ship which, linked up 
to the telegraph office ashore, acted as the fleet post 
office. “Private telegram for Carstairs,” and every 
time a boat had to be sent away to fetch it. The snot- 
ties and boat’s crews naturally got rather sick of it, 
for George’s interminable correspondence meant extra 
work for everyone. 


H.M.S. Pericles 


97 


But the Commander was never slow in inventing a 
punishment to fit every crime, and one day during 
lunch there came a rap on the gunroom door followed 
by the entry of a signal boy. 

“Private telegram for Mister Carstairs,” he an- 
nounced. “An’ the orficer of the watch wants to see 
’im at once, please.” 

So George, leaving his meal, went on deck, and 
presently, to our huge delight, we saw him pulling 
over alone in the dinghy to fetch his telegram. It 
was a distance of three-quarters of a mile either way, 
and that same afternoon he rowed backwards and for- 
wards no less than thrice. The next day he repeated 
the evolution no less than four times, and during the 
evening complained bitterly of blisters on his hands 
and a great stiffness in his arms and legs. The treat- 
ment had a salutary effect, however, for the day after- 
wards his telegrams dwindled to one, while the next 
day there were none at all. 

Thereafter George continued his correspondence 
like any ordinary mortal by means of the penny post, 
but for a very long time he was known as the “Dinghy- 
man.” Moreover, all the other snotties in the squad- 
ron had heard of the episode and made facetious re- 
marks whenever they met him ashore. 

I have no space to describe the other senior mid- 
shipmen, but the six “warts” were Purdey, MacTav- 
ish, Meryon, Sandilands, Prescott, and myself. The 
two latter had been in my term at Osborne and Dart- 
mouth, but the others were about six months our 


seniors. 


9 8 


The Sub 


They were all good fellows, and as we were all 
“dog’s bodies” we rather hung together. They cer- 
tainly put us up to all the tricks of the trade, and 
told us among other things that if we ever had any 
request to make of the Commander it was as well 
to beard him after dinner in the evening when he 
was always in a good humour. They also informed 
us that the morning watch at sea was well worth keep- 
ing, because the Captain invariably invited the “young 
gentlemen” who kept that watch to have breakfast 
with him. And breakfast with the skipper was bet- 
ter than breakfast in the gunroom. There were no 
tinned salmon fishcakes and watery porridge in the 
“cuddy.” 1 

Also, Captain Playfair seemed to take it as an in- 
sult if we didn’t seem hungry. 

“Come on, boy !” he used to growl. “Pull yourself 
together. Do you mean to tell me you can’t stow an- 
other egg ?” 

“I don’t think so, sir,” we would answer, rather 
short of breath, while the steward looked on in as- 
tonished admiration. 

“Well, try some marmalade or jam, then. When I 
was a midshipman . . .” 

We learned, too, where one could retire to smoke 
a clandestine cigarette during the forenoon, and the 
individual idiosyncrasies of the wardroom officers, 
particularly the watchkeeping Lieutenants. 

Mr. Halliday, for example, always had cocoa dur- 
ing the middle watch at sea and expected his snotty 
1 Cuddy, i.e. the Captain’s cabin. 


H.M.S. Pericles 


99 


to brew it. And woe betide the young officer who put 
in the sugar last of all. The cocoa, sugar, and a lit- 
tle milk had first to be stirred into a stiff paste at 
the bottom of the cup and the boiling water poured in 
on top of it, thus producing the creamy froth which 
delighted Mr. Halliday’s soul. 

Another of the watchkeepers, not content with 
cocoa and ship’s biscuit, celebrated every middle watch 
with a good square meal. He always took an electric 
chafing-dish with him to the charthouse underneath 
the bridge, and while he kept the watch on the “mon- 
key’s island,” 1 the snotty cooked his eggs, bacon, saus- 
ages, and devilled chicken legs. 

Never shall I forget the time when, whilst remov- 
ing a fried egg from the dish with the navigator’s 
compasses, I inadvertently allowed it to drop on the 
open chart of the English Channel. It burst like a 
lyddite shell in an ever-widening circle of hot grease. 
I first contemplated removing all traces of my guilt 
by burning the chart. Then I thought better of it and 
tried to wipe up the mess with my handkerchief. The 
process was not good for the chart. 

And presently, in the midst of this operation, I 
heard a step behind me and turned round to see the 
Lieutenant (N), 2 Mr. Hodder, gazing at me open- 
mouthed in indignant astonishment. 

“I’m awfully sorry, sir,” I blurted out, going hot 
and cold in turns. “I was cooking an egg for Mr. 
Trueman, sir, and I’m afraid I must have dropped it.” 

^‘Monkey’s island,” i.e. the upper bridge. 

2 Lieutenant (N), i.e. Lieutenant for navigating duties. 


IOO 


The Sub 


His mouth worked as he tried to speak. Then he 
took off his cap, hurled it to the deck, and tried to 
dance upon it, glaring at me all the while like a maniac. 
Then he suddenly found his tongue. 

“You miserable little worm!” he shouted, gibber- 
ing with rage. “You come into my charthouse and 
cook your beastly eggs all over my chart. You stuff 
yourself with food morning, noon, and night until you 
can hardly see ! Oh, you little fiend ! Singe my whis- 
kers! Look at that disgusting mess! Look at it!! 
Look at it ! ! !” 

“Lm really fearfully sorry, sir,” I managed to get 
out, trembling in my shoes. “Mr. Trueman . . 

“To hell with Mr. Trueman!” he bellowed, flying 
out of the charthouse and dashing up the ladder to the 
upper bridge like one demented, there to continue the 
conversation with Mr. Trueman himself. 

For quite five minutes the battle raged furiously, 
while I listened in trepidation to the angry voices. 
Then I heard Mr. Trueman laugh, and presently he 
called me by name. 

“Sir?” said I, my knees knocking together. 

“Munro. You will kindly cook another egg and 
present it to the navigating officer with my compli- 
ments. When you've done that you can do one for 
yourself.” 

“You're not such a bad cook, youngster,” Mr. Hod- 
der said graciously, when he had come below to the 
charthouse and had demolished my handiwork. “As a 
punishment for ruining my chart you shall cook me 
an egg every time you have the middle watch. But 


H.M.S. Pericles 


IOI 


remember,” he added, wagging an admonitory finger 
at me. “Never dare to use the chafing-dish unless 
you’ve put the chart in the drawer. It’s only by sheer 
luck that I happen to have a duplicate.” 

So all was peace. Mr. Hodder’s bark was always 
worse than his bite, and he was one of the most popu- 
lar officers in the ship. 

Then there was Mr. Carley, another watchkeeper, 
who was always so sleepy that he had to be called 
half an hour before his watch, and every five min- 
utes thereafter, if he was to turn out of his bunk in 
time to appear at the hour. When remonstrated with 
for relieving late he invariably said that the snotty 
hadn’t called him, whereupon the snotty got into 
trouble with the officer relieved. If, on the other 
hand, we dared to turn on the electric light in Mr. 
Carley’s cabin to wake him up, we got bitten by him, 
so whatever happened we generally got it in the neck. 

But we managed to survive it, and it was always 
some consolation to us to think that, junior as we were, 
there was always someone in the gunroom who was 
junior to us. That was Tilley, the Assistant Clerk, 
a small, rather nice little chap with a squeaky voice 
and sandy hair. He was the wart of all the warts, and 
at times, when he dared to become obstreperous, we 
took jolly good care to let him know it. 


CHAPTER V 


The Day’s Work 

I T is a dull and an uninteresting business for a per- 
son who has been a midshipman himself to sit 
down and write of what he did and how he was 
trained; but I cannot very well omit all reference to 
that very crucial period of my life. I have a theory, 
and I believe it to be a correct one, that the success 
or otherwise of a naval officer’s career depends in no 
small measure on his upbringing in his first sea-going 
ship. 

A snotty, like anyone else of a susceptible age, is 
very malleable, and absorbs outside impressions like 
a piece of blotting paper. If his first sea-going ship 
is a smart ship, therefore; if the Commander, among 
his many other duties, can find time to keep a horny 
but not unsympathetic eye upon the “young gentle- 
men”; if the Sub-Lieutenant of the gunroom and the 
senior snotties themselves exert their authority and en- 
force discipline in the way they should, their newly 
joined shipmate will see that it is the fashion to be 
smart, and, in seventy-five per cent, of cases, will turn 
out a good officer. If, on the other hand, he is allowed 
to do as he pleases without let or hindrance, he has 
every excuse for being a failure when he grows up. 
These are platitudes — merely another way of say- 
102 


The Day’s Work 


103 


in g “Spare the rod and spoil the child” — but the truth 
of them is more than borne out by the histories of 
some of those who have the misfortune to figure in the 
quarterly Court Martial returns of His Majesty’s 
Fleet. 

We had no excuse for going to the dogs in the 
Pericles. We were very well looked after indeed, 
firstly by Commander Transom, who took a great per- 
sonal interest in us and encouraged us to play games 
rather than to loaf aimlessly about when we went 
ashore. He also hunted us mercilessly when he thought 
we were getting slack at our job on board, and though 
we groaned loudly at the time, I have no doubt that it 
did us a lot of good. 

Next came Lieutenant Hinkson, the senior “salt 
horse,” 1 two and a half striped Lieutenant , 2 who was 
in charge of our seamanship instruction, and generally 
regulated our programme of work. He was a destroy- 
er officer who was doing a couple of years service 
in a battleship to keep him in touch with the affairs 
of the big-ship navy, and whatever other ideas he 

1 “Salt horse/' i.e. an officer who has not specialised in any 
particular branch such as gunnery, torpedo, navigation, etc. 
“Salt horse” was the name given by old-time seamen to their 
salt beef in casks, and a “salt horse” officer is sometimes sup- 
posed to know more of old-fashioned sailoring than the more 
scientific specialist. 

* “Two and a half striped Lieutenant,” i.e. a Lieutenant of 
over eight years’ seniority who wears the thin ring of gold 
lace on his sleeve between the two thicker ones. The title 
“Lieutenant-Commander” was not introduced until 1914. 


104 


The Sub 


may have had he certainly believed in keeping our 
noses to the grindstone. 

Then, in the gunroom itself, there were Rawson 
and all the senior snotties. The Sub was a great stick- 
ler for Service etiquette and personal cleanliness, and 
exercised a rigid supervision over our behaviour and 
dress. It was from him that I learnt by bitter experi- 
ence that it is the Service custom for the junior offi- 
cer to get into a boat first, and to leave it last, while 
he would never allow a midshipman into the mess for 
meals with a dirty collar, grimy hands, or unbrushed 
hair. One unfortunate wart was even made to mess 
upon his chest outside in the gunroom flat for three 
days because he habitually omitted to use a nail-brush. 

Moreover, because Rawson once saw some snotty 
who knew no better going ashore in a hideous scarlet 
tie, he started a routine of inspecting us and our at- 
tire before we went on leave in the afternoons. 

“Sandilands,” he would say, “you’re not going 
ashore with that walking-stick of yours. It’s the most 
vulgar and beastly thing I’ve ever seen. If you can’t 
get a better one, for heaven’s sake spend a shilling and 
buy a decent ash plant !” 

So the offending article, a cheap and nasty whangee 
cane with chased silver mountings, was impounded 
and destroyed. 

Tilley was also prohibited from landing in a striped 
yellow and green waistcoat knitted and presented to 
him by an aunt whom I should think must have been 
colour-blind, while silk or violently coloured socks 
and flaring ties brought forth a torrent of abuse. 


The Day’s Work 


io 5 


Habitual offenders were sometimes haled before 
a gunroom Court Martial to answer for their delin- 
quencies in this respect, and with the Sub as presi- 
dent and the senior snotties as members of the Court 
the sentences were more just than merciful. 

The charge generally read something as follows : 

“For that he, Donald MacTavish, on the 17th day 
of March, 1912, after having been cautioned, did at- 
tempt to leave the ship in attire unbecoming to an 
officer and a gentleman, to wit, purple socks and an 
emerald green tie.” 

Accused admitted his guilt, though, in a statement 
in mitigation of his offence, pleaded extenuating cir- 
cumstances. The purple socks were the only ones 
he possessed without holes in them, while he had pur- 
chased the green tie by gaslight and did not notice its 
vivid hue until afterwards. 

That excuse wouldn’t wash, said the president drily, 
and accused having no further evidence to offer on 
his own behalf, Mr. President consulted with his 
learned colleagues, assumed his cocked hat, and pro- 
nounced sentence. Three strokes with “Little Benja- 
min, our ruler” — otherwise the Sub’s cane — for the 
charge of disobedience, and accused to wear a black 
tie and black socks in civilian attire for a period of 
one month. The first part of the sentence to be car- 
ried into execution then and there. 

Another crab, Prescott, was tried on the charge of 
being in love with an unsuitable person, to wit, a pretty 
young woman who kept the cigarette kiosk on the 
pier at a certain watering-place we once visited. It 


io6 


The Sub 


was alleged that accused had addressed the young 
lady as “Gertie,” and that he had been seen in her 
company at the local roller-skating rink on an early- 
closing day. 

Accused proved conclusively that he had never ad- 
dressed the lady by her Christian name, and that, 
moreover, her name was “Rose,” not “Gertie.” He 
further assured his judges that he had made her ac- 
quaintance at the skating rink solely by having the mis- 
fortune to “barge” into her. Whereupon, being a 
model of gentility, he bowed and apologised, and she, 
the sly puss, remarked that it was a very nice after- 
noon, and would the young gentleman care for some- 
body to help him along, as he seemed rather unused 
to roller skates. He, of course, didn’t quite like the 
idea, but couldn’t very well refuse, and . . .” 

That was quite enough, interrupted the president. 
Did the accused think they had the whole blooming 
day to waste listening to his yarn? Certainly not! 
The intentions of accused were evidently strictly hon- 
ourable, but for having the impudence to visit a skating 
rink on a perfectly fine afternoon when he should 
have been taking exercise for the good of his health, 
and for wasting the time of the “Honourable Court 
here assembled” in listening to his rotten yarn, ac- 
cused was sentenced to “half a dozen of the best,” and 
was warned to be more careful in future. Cheers in 
court, but heart-rending lamentations on the part of 
the accused, who loudly protested his innocence as he 
was dragged off to sacrifice. 

But really we had little time to indulge our natu- 


The Day’s Work 


107 


ral bent for wickedness, for our days were very full. 
Every morning except on Sundays, when we were al- 
lowed to lie in until 7 o’clock, we were turned out of 
our hammocks at 6.15. Then, arraying ourselves in 
flannels, we fell in on deck for physical drill, which was 
varied occasionally by boat pulling or rifle drill. At 
6.50 we rushed below and scrambled through our ablu- 
tions in the tiled bathroom in the flat beside the gun- 
room. We each had our own private hot- water can, 
and it was supposed to be the duty of our bandsmen 
servants to take down one of the shallow, saucer-like 
baths, and to place therein his master’s filled can, to- 
gether with his soap, sponge, and nail-brush. But all 
these things were regarded more or less as public prop- 
erty, in addition to which there were not enough baths 
to go round, so it was always a case of first come 
first served, in which the crabs, due to the Hunnish in- 
stincts of the senior snotties, frequently went to the 
wall. 

Our baths finished we proceeded to dress at our 
chests, and at 7.30 went to the signal bridge for twenty 
minutes instruction in signals, and half an hour later, 
by which time we were ravenous, there came break- 
fast. 

Our gunroom messman, Mr. Marshall, did us very 
well on the whole, wonderfully well when one con- 
siders that we all had healthy appetites and paid no 
more than one shilling a day for our food. But be- 
sides that, of course, the messman drew the tenpence 
a day ration money for each one of us, this sum being 


io8 


The Sub 


allowed by the Government to every officer and man 1 
in the Navy. He could also buy fresh bread, meat, 
vegetables, and practically everything else except pure 
luxuries, at contract rates from the stores kept on 
board, and that saved him a good bit, for one can't buy 
the best beef or mutton for sixpence a pound at any 
butcher's shop ashore, and other things were cheap in 
proportion. We had our bakery on board, while meat 
was embarked by the boat-load about once a month, 
being kept in a refrigerating chamber until required 
for use. 

I think Mr. Marshall must have made most of his 
profit over our “extra bills" for such things as cake 
at tea, biscuits, pots of jam, potted meat, fruit at din- 
ner, and tins of cocoa to while away the monotony of 
the night watches, but even then his prices were fairly 
reasonable. 

Of course, like other gunrooms, we sometimes suf- 
fered from a surfeit of tinned salmon cutlets, rissoles, 
canteen sardines on toast, and Russian kromeskies. 
(I fail to find the word “kromesky" in any dictionary, 
but in our time the delicacy consisted of a small pastry 
affair filled with hot air and any old thing in the shape 
of rechauffe, minced-up meat.) But we wolfed every- 
thing he gave us, and if there were any complaints 
about the food from the senior members — it was as 
much as a wart's life was worth to be heard making 
a grievance — Mr. Marshall’s face would appear in the 

1 Men over twenty who draw their rum ration receive 9 y 2 d. 
a day only. Officers, except warrant officers, are not allowed 
a spirit ration. 


The Day’s Work 109 

trap-hatch between the gunroom and the pantry out- 
side. 

"It’s like this here, gentlemen,” he used to say, beam- 
ing benignly, “I’m sorry the dinner is not up to our 
usual standard, but my chef, being a married man, 
must have a run ashore occasionally. Our dinner to- 
night has been done by the wardroom cook!” 

Observe that he referred to our old villain as the 
“chef,” and the wardroom culinary expert as the 
“cook.” 

But whatever he did, provided he refrained from 
starving us, we could forgive him. He was a very 
useful friend, and I don’t know how many times he 
paid my washing bill to enable me to get my shirts 
and collars from the laundry, or how often he obliged 
me with a loan of five shillings. Laundries who under- 
take midshipmen’s washing generally demand their 
money before they deliver up the goods, and neither 
I nor my messmates had half-a-crown to our names 
by the twelfth of the month. 

We finished breakfast at 8.20, when there was just 
time to smoke a pipe on deck before both watches fell 
in to clear up decks for divisions. We all puffed pipes, 
for as we were over the age of eighteen before we 
came to sea we were allowed by the regulations to 
smoke. 

On Monday, which was usually a “general drill 
day,” when the whole squadron did evolutions together 
by signal from the flagship, we attended divisions and 
prayers at 9.10 with our men, on the conclusion of 


IXO 


The Sub 


which the lower deck was cleared and practically every 
soul on board fell in on deck. 

At 9.30, by which time all the telescopes on our 
bridge would be levelled on the flagship, a couple of 
signal flags would climb to her masthead. 

“Out sheet anchor, sir!” the Chief Yeoman of Sig- 
nals would howl to the Commander. 

“Out sheet anchor !” bellowed the boatswain’s mates, 
twittering on their pipes. 

The lines of white clad men would dissolve with a 
scurry of feet as they rushed to their stations, some 
to hoist out the heavy launch and pinnace which lay 
on the booms abaft the after funnel and had to be 
swung out with the main derrick ; others to unreel the 
huge 5j4-inch steel wire hawser ready for coiling 
down into the sailing pinnace ; and still more to lower 
the six-ton anchor from the forecastle to the water’s 
edge ready to be taken away in the launch. 

I was the Captain’s “doggie,” and, with him, stood 
on the upper bridge and watched the proceedings, and 
at first the confusion appeared to me to be absolutely 
chaotic. Men seemed to scamper to and fro in an 
aimless sort of way doing nothing in particular but 
get in each other’s way, so that it was a marvel that 
anything was done at all. There was a great deal of 
noise, too, for one heard the constant twittering of 
the pipes and frantic objurgations from the 1st Lieu- 
tenant on the forecastle to “Surge 1 handsomely! 2 

‘To “surge” a rope is to allow it to slide round the drum 
of a capstan or bollard. 

* “Handsomely,” i.e. slowly and with care. 


The Day's Work 


hi 


Handsomely ! ! Catch hold of the thing, you devils, 
it won’t bite you !” as a line of blue-jackets allowed a 
wire hawser to slide slowly through their hands and to 
travel round the drum of the capstan as the anchor 
took the weight and was lowered into the water. From 
aft, too, came a strident voice — “Away with the star- 
board after guy! Ease away roundly 1 the port fore- 
most and port after guys! Handsomely the starboard 
foremost guy ! Vast hauling the starboard after guy l” 
in such rapid succession that one wondered what it 
all meant. It was merely the bulky 42-foot sailing 
launch, hanging from the end of the main derrick like 
one of those flying boats at Earl’s Court, being lifted 
from her resting-place, whirled into the air, and swung 
out through space until she was deposited neatly into 
the water alongside the ship. And the crew, if you 
please, were in the boat the whole time! 

It took me some considerable time to perceive that 
there was a method in all this madness, but event- 
ually I came to realise that our Commander’s reputa- 
tion for being one of the best organisers in the Service 
was by no means an empty one. His stations for 
every conceivable evolution were absolutely cut and 
dried, and as the ship had been in commission for some 
time, every man knew exactly what to do and when and 
how to do it. Being a Chatham crew, with no small 
proportion of Cockneys among them, they sometimes 
chattered rather loudly, but there was no doubt that 
they were one of the best-drilled ship’s companies in 
the squadron, if not in the whole Navy. 

1 “Roundly” i.e. quickly, smartly. 


112 


The Sub 


Commander Transom had a wonderful memory, 
too. He knew the name of every seaman rating in 
the ship, and several times I saw him step to the fore 
side of the bridge, cap slightly askew and a mega- 
phone to his lips, and say something — he never seemed 
to raise his voice — to a man on the forecastle. 

“Ordinary Seaman Whitlock! Don’t stand there 
looking about you, my boy! This isn’t a Sunday- 
school treat. You ought to be backing up that five 
and a half inch wire with the second sub of forecas- 
tlemen port watch!” 

And Henry Whitlock, O.S., looking like a startled 
rabbit at being singled out by name in the midst of 
such a scurrying multitude, went off to his place 
firmly convinced that the Commander was in league 
with the Noseless One. How else should he know 
his name, him, a humble O.D. 1 who had joined the 
ship only ten days before? 

The Commander’s memory was positively un- 
canny. It was never a case of “Hi! You there!” 
with him. It was “Able Seaman Robinson!” or 
“Petty Officer Higgins!” So the men, knowing this, 
always worked their hardest with the Bloke’s eagle 
eye upon them. There was very little that escaped 
his notice. 

But there were many other evolutions that we did 
on Monday mornings besides “Out Sheet Anchor.” 
It might be “Out Net Defence,” when the great, steel- 

J “O.D.” A Service term for “Ordinary Seaman.” The 
correct abbreviations are “O.S.” or “Ord.,” “O.D.” probably 
being derived from the latter. 


The Day's Work 


113 

meshed torpedo nets encircling the ship were swung 
out on their booms to hang round the ship like a 
great curtain to ward off hostile torpedoes, or “Fire 
Stations,” a sloppy business in which the decks were 
littered with hoses while every steam and hand pump 
throughout the ship was brought into play to subdue 
an imaginary conflagration. Then we practised “Col- 
lision Stations,” when the water-tight doors were 
closed and the marines staggered along with a huge 
collision mat, an affair of substantial canvas thickly 
thrummed with spunyarn until it looked like some 
huge, long-haired carpet, which was presently hauled 
into position over a mythical hole below the water- 
line by means of its bottom line, lowering line, and 
fore-and-afters. 

Sometimes we pretended to “Abandon ship,” when 
all the boats were lowered, were provided with wa- 
ter and biscuit, and every soul on board was packed 
into them. Then “Clear ship for action,” preparing 
to be towed, or to take a disabled ship in tow, and 
anything else that the Admiral’s ingenuity could sug- 
gest. We were always hard at it for about an hour 
and a half on general drill mornings, ship working 
against ship to be the first to complete the evolu- 
tion ordered, and to break the red, white, and blue 
“Number One” pendant at the yardarm to show 
that she had finished. 

The morning’s entertainment invariably concluded 
with that favourite diversion of all Admirals, “Away 
all boats’ crews, pull round the fleet !” Every pulling 
boat was lowered with a rush, the crews tumbled 


The Sub 


114 

into them, and then ensued a race round the divi- 
sion of four battleships, each ship’s boats starting 
and finishing at their own ship. Soon the water 
would be covered with a never-ending procession of 
42-foot launches, pinnaces, cutters, jolly boats, gigs, 
galleys, and whalers, the light galleys and gigs skim- 
ming through the water with their long oars, and 
the heavier launches and pinnaces splashing and lum- 
bering along behind like fussy old ladies trying to 
catch a train. It was a sort of ship to ship race, for 
every boat in the squadron had exactly the same dis- 
tance to travel, and as the first boat round got back 
to her ship the vessel hoisted the “One Pendant” at 
the dip, or half-way up, and close up to the yardarm 
when the last boat returned and was hoisted out of 
the water. So the straining, sweating crews, minus 
their jumpers, could see how things were progressing 
and nerved every effort to get home first. 

Some ships, knowing the Admiral’s habit of pull- 
ing round the fleet after the other drills, and anxious 
to appear smarter than they really were, “warmed 
the bell” 1 by manning their boats beforehand and 
keeping them out of sight until the signal went up. 
In other words, they cheated. The Amphibious was 
a noted offender in this respect, but one day, when 
she had several of her boats waiting alongside with 
the men already in them, she happened to swing 
the wrong way, so that the flagship saw what was 

1 “Warming the bell/’ i.e. calling a relief for a watch be- 
fore the proper time. A Service expression which can be 
taken to signify any illegitimate method of saving time. 


The Day’s Work 


111 

being done. A few moments later the signal went 
up. “Away all boats’ crews, pull round the fleet. 
Amphibious ’ boats to be manned by stokers, marines, 
and ordinary seamen.” 

We got away in good time, while the poor old 
Amphibious was still struggling to get her proper 
boats’ crews out of the boats, and the stokers, marines, 
and ordinary seamen in. 

On Friday forenoons we usually went to “General 
Quarters,” when the guns were cleared away and of- 
ficers and men went to their action stations, while on 
Thursdays the seamen were sometimes rigged out with 
their rifles, bayonets, and gaiters, and were sent ashore 
to play at being soldiers. And how they hated it! 
The number of men who professed to have been “ex- 
cused boots” by the P.M.O. on these occasions was 
truly wonderful. One could almost believe that they 
were the same as those old tarrybreeks who, while 
the Naval Brigade was employed ashore during the 
Sudan campaign in the ’eighties, removed their foot- 
gear and marched barefooted over the desert, greatly 
to the envy of the soldiers. A sailor never loves his 
boots, though the habit of going about barefooted on 
board ship is rapidly dying out. Perhaps it is due to 
the number of ring-bolts and other fittings in the decks 
of modern men-of-war against which one can stub 
one’s toes. 

Saturday forenoon was always given over to an 
orgy of cleaning ship and holystoning decks, while 
the afternoon was set aside as a “Make and mend.” 
In the days when seamen made all their own gar- 


n6 


The Sub 


ments one afternoon a week, generally Thursday, was 
given for this purpose, and now that the men buy 
most of their clothes ready-made the raison d'etre of 
the “Make and mend” has really vanished. But the 
custom was too old not to survive, though the half- 
holiday is now given on Saturday. 

Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest and re- 
cuperation after the toil of the week, but even so 
there was plenty to be done. The men turned out at 
5.15 instead of 5 o’clock and cleaned the ship as usual. 
Then they shifted into their “Number One’s,” or best 
clothes, and at 9.30, by which time the officers were 
all on deck in their frock coats, swords, and white 
gloves — we snotties wore our round jackets and dirks 
— the bugles sounded “Divisions.” 

The men, when assembled, were first inspected by 
their officers, particular attention being paid to those 
who, unless they were checked, fancied themselves 
with long hair or unshaven faces, in trousers too loose 
to be strictly uniform, with the V of their jumpers 
cut too low in front, or the three rows of tape on 
their collars too close together or too far apart. This 
preliminary inspection over the Captain went round 
followed by the Commander, the Fleet Surgeon, Fleet 
Paymaster, myself (in my official capacity as the Cap- 
tain’s “Doggie”), and a whole string of lesser lumi- 
naries in the shape of the Master at Arms, the Cap- 
tain’s Coxswain, the Petty Officer of the upper deck, 
with quite a number of messengers, buglers, and other 
small fry bringing up the rear. It was quite a goodly 
procession. 


The Day’s Work 


ii 7 


As we drew near each division the officer in charge 
brought his men to attention and gave the order “Off 
caps!” after which the Captain walked up and down 
the ranks and inspected them. Sometimes he made 
no remarks at all, but occasionally pointed out a man 
with a quiff or “foretopman’s lock,” or another with 
a beard not trimmed in accordance with the regula- 
tions. And how precise the rules as to beards in the 
Navy really are I only discovered by looking up the 
K.R. and A.I. 1 

“The Captain is to permit all the officers and men of 
the ship, including the Royal Marines , to wear beards 
and moustaches if they so desire. 

“ When the permission is taken advantage of, the 
use of the razor is to be entirely discontinued, as mou- 
staches are not to be worn without the beard, nor the 
beard without moustaches, except in the case of offi- 
cers' stewards and cooks, and marines, who whether 
afloat or ashore may wear their beards and moustaches, 
or moustaches only, as each may elect. 

“ The hair of the beard and moustaches or whiskers 
is to be kept well cut and trimmed. The Captain is to 
give such directions as may seem to him desirable on 
these points, and is to establish, so far as practicable, 
uniformity as to the length of the hair, beards, mous- 
taches, and whiskers of the men .” 

Those regulations are so happily worded that any 
Captain of any of His Majesty’s ships could well take 
exception to any beard of any length worn by any 
member of his ship’s company. Few of them worry 
1 i.e. King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions. 


n8 


The Sub 


much about it, thank goodness, but beards like unto 
that worn by Abraham in a picture in an illustrated 
Bible I once possessed are not encouraged. Neither 
are the “young gentlemen ,, encouraged to grow their 
face fungus. I knew of one aged midshipman who 
tried it, and his face, at the end of three weeks, looked 
like a hairy gooseberry. He was ordered to shave, 
regulations or no regulations. 

Sometimes there were amusing incidents on these 
Sunday rounds. My friend Nichols, for instance, the 
Engineer Sub, who was the officer of one of the 
Stoker’s divisions, had a man who was the dirtiest, 
most disreputable lout of a fellow imaginable. His 
habits were such that his messmates made an official 
complaint about it. Persuasion, bullying, and punish- 
ment were each tried in turn, but without success. 
Human agency alone could never make Joseph Mul- 
ready clean. Personally, I believe he was half-witted. 

But one Sunday he turned up at divisions even 
dirtier than usual. His hair was long and unkempt; 
his face, streaked with grime, had not seen soap or 
a razor for a week; his clothes were greasy, and the 
less said about the state of his hands the better. 

“What do you mean by coming to divisions in that 
condition?” asked Nichols, surveying the unsavoury 
object with the deepest disgust. “Haven’t I cautioned 
you again and again not to do it?” 

Mulready opened his mouth, but said nothing. 

“Haven’t you any explanation to offer?” Nick per- 
sisted. 

“I tried to wash meself, sir,” Mulready stammered 


The Day’s Work 119 

at last. “But someone 'ad pinched me soap and towel, 
sir." 

“And is that your best suit ?" 

“It’s the only one I got, sir." 

“Where are the others?" 

“I’ve lost 'em, sir." 

Suppressed titters from the rear rank and a heart- 
felt sigh from Nichols. But what on earth was he 
to do? If the Captain saw Mulready there would be 
ructions, and the divisional officer would inevitably be 
the burnt offering. Nichols wasn’t going to be sacri- 
ficed on any account, and as the time was short the 
only way out of the difficulty was to conceal Mul- 
ready pro tem. 

As luck would have it the Pericles was fitted with 
small electric lifts giving communication between the 
upper deck and stokehold, and one of these happened 
to be quite close to where the Stoker's division fell in. 
So they took the insanitary Joseph, and, much against 
his will, propelled him gently towards the opening, 
placed him inside the cage, and closed the door, though 
not before the occupant, unperceived by anyone, left 
the impression of a black and grimy palm on the 
spotless grey paint. 

Presently the Captain arrived and walked up and 
down the ranks. “A very clean-looking lot of men, 
Mr. Nichols," he said approvingly, turning to go for- 
ward. 

Then his eye caught sight of the awful imprint on 
the door. 


120 


The Sub 


“Hullo! D’you see that, Transom ?” he said, point- 
ing at it. 

“Who the dooce did that ?” queried the Commander, 
scratching his head. “It wasn’t there a quarter of an 
hour ago, that I’ll swear.” 

The skipper walked up to it and examined it atten- 
tively, when all of a sudden the door opened about 
an inch and nearly knocked his cap off. 

“’Ere?” came a sepulchral voice from inside. 
“ ’Ere ? ’As ’e gorn yet ? Cin I come out ?” 

“What the — who the — who’s that inside there?” de- 
manded the skipper, seizing hold of the handle. “Come 
out at once, whoever you are !” 

The door opened slowly to disclose Stoker Mul- 
ready, as black as the pots, framed in the narrow open- 
ing. 

“Does this man belong to you, Mr. Nichols?” 

“Y — yes, sir. He b — belongs to my division,” stut- 
tered Nick, blushing a rosy red and wishing that the 
deck might open and swallow him up. 

“And you put him in there so that I shouldn’t see 
him, eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The skipper transferred his gaze to Mulready. 

“You are the dirtiest man I have ever seen. You’re 
a disgrace to your division and the ship !” 

No answer from the culprit. 

“He’s always been the same, sir,” the Commander 
chimed in. “Mr. Nichols has brought this man before 
me time after time for being slovenly and losing his 



“does this man belong TO YOU, MR. 


NICHOI.S?” 









* 















. 







The Day’s Work 


121 


kit, and punishment has no effect. I think he’s slight- 
ly wanting, sir,” in a whisper. 

“Well, turn him over to the Fleet Surgeon and have 
him medically examined,” said the skipper. “As for 
you, Mr. Nichols . . .” 

Poor old Nick stood strictly to attention. 

“As for you, Mr. Nichols,” the owner went on with 
a twinkle in his eye. “Blow me! If I had a man like 
that in my division I’d have done the same myself !” 

So the procession moved on with people stuffing 
handkerchiefs into their mouths, leaving poor old 
Nichols in a state of hopeless bewilderment. 

Oh yes. Captain Playfair had a very pronounced 
sense of humour, and it didn’t much matter how 
wicked one was provided one was really funny. 

Our mess-decks were quite the cleanest and best 
kept in the squadron, but it was our ist Lieutenant 
who invented the game of what he called “Spotting the 
Spud.” No. i had a theory that a Captain must find 
fault with something or other on the mess-decks dur- 
ing Sunday rounds, otherwise he would not be doing 
his job. Rather than let him go empty away, there- 
fore, he determined to give him a legitimate excuse for 
finding fault, which also had the advantage of dis- 
tracting his attention from things which really might 
matter. 

The rules of the game were simple. You first 
caused the mess-deck sweepers to scrub the deck, the 
stools, the tables, the bread-barges, and anything else 
that could be scrubbed to a state of snowy whiteness. 
Next, you chivvied the paintwork cleaners to wipe 


122 


The Sub 


down the spotless white enamel, and hunted the cooks 
of messes until their tin utensils shone like burnished 
silver and their brasswork like gold. 

Then, at 9.15 on Sunday morning, when the men 
had been cleared off the mess-deck, you went round 
followed by one of the Ship’s Corporals with a large 
bag. In this you placed all stray boots, clothing, musi- 
cal instruments, vegetables, and other articles beloved 
of the bluejacket which you found “sculling” about. 
Incidentally, also, you charged the respective owners 
one inch of soap on Monday afternoon for each ar- 
ticle impounded. 

Having ascertained that the mess-deck was spotless 
and perfect, you then produced one small potato from 
the tail pocket of your frock coat, which, with much 
strategy, you placed in a fairly conspicuous position 
where it was practically certain to catch the owner’s 
eye when he came round. 

If he failed to see it you lost the game; but if he 
remarked, “Ha! Is that a potato I see there?” you 
won, and treated yourself to a second glass of port 
after cold supper on Sunday evening. 

But Captain Playfair must have heard of this inno- 
cent amusement, for one Sunday morning he turned to 
the 1st Lieutenant. 

“How is it I don’t see your potato this morning, 
First Lieutenant?” 

“Potato, sir?” echoed No. 1, blushing all over his 
face and pretending to be very mystified. 

“Yes, potato,” chuckled the skipper. “I’m sorry 
you won’t get your extra glass of port to-night, but if 


The Day’s Work 


123 


you will dine ashore with my wife and myself we’ll 
see what can be done!” 

Complete collapse of No. 1. 

The 1st Lieutenant’s mind seemed rather to run 
on vegetables, for, as a gunnery expert, he had once 
been attached to a British Naval Mission lent to the 
Ottoman navy. According to him many of the Os- 
manli seamen, recruited from the interior of Asia 
Minor, had never seen the sea before, much less a 
man-of-war. Consequently they knew nothing of 
naval terms. 

So it was no use saying, “Haul away the purchase !” 
“Ease the topping lift!” or “Walk away with the fore 
guy!” They evinced no emotion at all, and merely 
stared about them in the blankest astonishment. 

But, being agriculturists, they did know the names 
of vegetables. So what had to be done was to attach 
a different specimen to each particular rope, and they 
always knew which rope to pull upon when one 
gave the order, “Haul away the onion!” “Ease the 
water-melon!” or “Walk away with the tomato!” 
Things were exquisitely simple.” 

I won’t vouch for the truth of No. i’s yarns as to 
his Turkish experiences, for he was a born raconteur, 
and I somehow remember having seen this story in 
print long before I ever met him. 

But I can believe anything of the Ottoman navy in 
its palmy days. A Turkish cruiser once arrived at 
Spithead by special invitation to attend a certain naval 
review. She was moored with due care in her exact 
place in the line, but during the night the wind rose 


124 


The Sub 


to a gentle breeze. The tide, moreover, was rather 
strong, and the next morning the Turk dragged her 
anchors and was foul of her neighbour, a Brazilian. 

Much gesticulation and objurgation from both ships, 
the officers and men of which, I presume, could not un- 
derstand each other’s language. Much tearing of hair 
and frantic signalling on the part of the King’s Har- 
bour Master who had so carefully anchored the Turk. 

So the authorities provided themselves with sex- 
tants and other instruments and reanchored the Sul- 
tan’s vessel in her correct position, but again she 
dragged her anchors. This time the truth came out. 

“I am desolated that you should have had all this 
trouble about my ship,” explained the Turkish cap- 
tain, shrugging his shoulders. “But it is inevitable.” 

“Inevitable!” snapped the King’s Harbour Master. 
“Why?” 

“The fact of the matter is I have only three shackles 
of cable in the ship,” the Turk answered. “I was 
forced to part with the rest in payment for coal at 
Gibraltar!” 

Now three shackles of cable is 37 fathoms, or 225 
feet. An ordinary British man-of-war has fifteen 
shackles of cable on each of her two bower anchors, 
and on the occasion in question they, our own vessels, 
were moored with four shackles on each anchor. 

The Turk, apparently, had one on one, and two on 
the other. No wonder he dragged! 

History does not relate what happened. I believe 
they lent him some more from Portsmouth dockyard. 

I hope he returned it! 


CHAPTER VI 


Ups and Downs 

i 

D URING our first year at sea we were officially 
known as “ junior midshipmen.” In other 
words, we were still learning our job as offi- 
cers, and acquiring habits of responsibility, while the 
instruction we had had at Dartmouth and in the train- 
ing cruiser was still carried on. 

The six of us crabs formed a class or section by 
ourselves, and one forenoon a week the Naval Instruc- 
tor — who was also the Chaplain — took us in the purely 
theoretical work of navigation, nautical astronomy, 
mechanics, and so forth. We were supposed to be pretty 
well up in these subjects before we joined the Pericles, 
but there was “voluntary” instruction in the same sub- 
jects on two evenings a week between 8.30 and 9.30 
for all who cared to avail themselves of it. The 
Padre, too, excellent man that he was, was always 
ready to help us in our work at any time; but, if we 
were at all backward, he took very good care that all 
those crabs who did not volunteer to attend his eve- 
ning classes were compelled to do so. 

Our work went on in a regular six-monthly cycle, 
two months being devoted to what was known as 
125 


126 


The Sub 


“Seamanship, Navigation, and Deck duties”; one 
month at gunnery ; one month at torpedo and electrical 
work, and two at engineering. 

Our actual working hours were ordinarily from 
9 till 11.40 in the forenoon, and from 1.15 till 3.10 
in the afternoon, and we were never taken away from 
our instruction for work on deck unless there was 
something particularly interesting or instructive going 
on which it was considered advisable that we should 
witness. 

After working hours we had our regular watch to 
keep up till 10 o'clock at night in harbour, and day 
and night at sea, while, with the ship in harbour, we 
were also available for going away in charge of boats, 
with the proviso that no junior snotty was to go away 
in a steamboat until the Commander informed him 
that he was considered competent. Every midship- 
man had to attend the signal instruction before break- 
fast, moreover, and, each week, had to take in three 
morse flashing exercises made with a lamp after dark. 
This number was reduced to one a week when we had 
reached a certain standard. 

During the seamanship period we were in charge of 
Mr. Hinkson. He gave us two or three lectures a week 
on the purely theoretical part of the business, the rule 
of the road at sea, organisation, internal economy, 
anchor work, and any other matters which could con- 
veniently be explained by word of mouth. But by far 
the greater portion of the time was spent in practical 
instruction, such as going away in a boat under sail, 
splicing hemp and wire rope, rigging a pair of sheer- 


Ups and Downs 


127 


legs on the forecastle to lift the capstan drum, and 
being taken round the ship and having every fitting 
and its use explained to us. Mr. Hinkson was nothing 
if not thorough, and believed that the best way of 
teaching us how to do things was by making us do 
them ourselves, in which he was quite right. More- 
over, there was little in the seamanship line that he 
did not tell us, and if he wasn’t explaining steam tac- 
tics on the upper deck with us representing the ships, 
we were in the chains learning to heave the lead. 

Sometimes we were sent to old Chivers, the sail- 
maker, to learn the art of sailmaking, or sewing can- 
vas as it really is nowadays, since sails are not used 
in the Service except in boats. 

Chivers was the oldest man in the ship and a relic 
of a bygone age. He was a bit of a character, too, 
though he had a nasty habit of chewing tobacco and 
suffered from a firm conviction that the Service had 
gone, or was rapidly going, to the dogs. 

“Fifteen year ago, young gennel’men,” he used to 
wheeze, “th’ Service wasn’t like wot it is now. When 
I wus along o’ Commodore Martin in th’ ole Raleigh 
— she wus wot we calls a corvette, an’ wus Commo- 
dore’s ship in wot we calls th’ Trainin’ Squadron — 
I wus one o’ the most important members o’ the ’ole 
ship’s company. You see, we wus sailin’ ships mostly, 
’cept we ’ad hengines an’ bilers to ’elp us along when 
there wasn’t no wind.” 

He would pause for a moment to shift the quid of 
tobacco from his right cheek to the left. 

“Yus,” he went on, nodding away to himself while 


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his needle flew through the canvas. “Fifteen year 
ago th’ navy wus orl right, an’ we wus orl proper 
sailors. They isn’t sailors now, not ’arf of ’em ain’t. 
Why,” with an expression of the bitterest contempt, 
“there ain’t a petty orficer in th’ ship wot as shifted 
top’sls in a gale o’ wind same as we used ter do. ’Arf 
on ’em can’t walk abart on deck without their boots. 
I tells yer, young gennel’men, the Service ain’t ’arf 
wot it was, an’ ...” 

“But surely you’ve been in the navy more than fif- 
teen years, Olivers?” said one of us, looking at the 
old man’s badges. “I thought you remembered Nel- 
son?” 

“Na,” answered the sailmaker, wrinkling his brow 
in his effort to remember dates. “I served along o’ 
Lord Charles Beresford, but Nelson ’e went a bit be- 
fore my time. What yer larfin’ at?” he demanded 
suddenly, looking up. 

Our faces became very solemn. 

“Makin’ fun o’ me, are yer?” he growled. “Orl 
rite. I knows wot to do, Mister Purdey. I goes an’ 
tells Mister ’Inkson as ’ow you’ve been idlin’, see if I 
don’t !” 

“But I’m not idling!” Purdey protested, trying to 
conceal his smiles. “I’m listening hard to what you’re 
telling us.” 

“Are yer? But orl th’ same, young gennel’men, 
as I was say in’, when I wus along o’ Commodore Mar- 
tin I wus one o’ th’ most important men in th’ ship, 
’cos I wus th’ smartest ’and wi’ a palm an’ needle in 
th’ ’ole squadron. An’ th’ Commodore ’e knew a 


Ups and Downs 


129 


good man when ’e see’d one. ’E knowed that if they 
’ad th’ foretops’l split from clew to earring in a ’nurri- 
cane that they ’ad only to bring ’im along to me to 
get ’im repaired proper. Time an’ time agen the Com- 
modore sez to me, ‘Ben Olivers,’ ’e sez, ‘you’re a hart- 
ist, that’s wot you are. You’re a credit to the Service 
an’ th’ ship. If I ’ad my way I’d make yer a warrant 
orficer ter-morrow.’ But lor’ bless me, I didn’t want 
to be no warrant orficer, struttin’ abart in a fore an’ 
aft suit wi’ a sword, an’ givin’ orders to them wot’ a 
old enough to be me farther. But I could ’a bin, orl 
th’ same. But now,” he concluded mournfully, “wot 
’appens now, young gennel’men?” 

“What?” we demanded in chorus. 

“They calls me Grandpa Monkeyface ’cos o’ me 
whiskers, an’ sez I’m a ruddy ole fool ...” 

“Surely not!” we cried in mock amazement. 

“Yus they does, an’ well you knows it. They sez 
I’m time expired an’ outa date, an’ orl I’m fit for is 
to be put on to sewin’ deckclothes an’ ter be made fun 
of by th’ midshipmen an’ O.D.’s!” 

Which was rather ungrateful of the “hartist,” for 
really we never went out of our way to amuse our- 
selves at his expense, and many a bottle of beer he 
assimilated in the gunroom pantry at our expense. 

But he was a wonderful workman, and the Com- 
mander, though Chivers himself thought fit to pretend 
otherwise, held a very high opinion of him. The neat- 
ness and rapidity of his sewing always excited our 
admiration, and it is one thing to sew a button on a 
pair of trousers without making a botch of it, but 


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quite another to make even stitches in a piece of thick 
canvas with a large needle threaded with sailmaker’s 
twine. One has to propel it through the material with 
a steel disc, honeycombed like the surface of a thimble, 
embedded in the strap, or “palm,” worn across the 
palm of one’s hand. 

“You first takes a length o’ twine an’ threads ’im, 
so,” said the old man, going through the motions in 
slow time. “You rubs yer twine wi’ yer bit o’ bees- 
wax, so, an’ ’avin’ shoved your pointed ’ook through 
the canvas you’re sewin’ to get ’im nice an’ taut, you 
shoves your needle through, so, an’ so, an’ so, an’ 
makes yer stitches, see?” 

He drove the needle through the tough stuff with 
such rapidity and so evenly that the stitches looked as 
if they had been made with a machine. We tried to 
follow his example, but a pretty fearsome job we 
made of it. As I said before, it is one thing sewing 
on a button. I could do that quite well, and even 
went so far as to make a pretty decent job of a tear 
in the seat of my second-best trousers with the assist- 
ance of the hussif which my mother gave me as a 
parting present when I came to sea. But sailmaking, 
like painting or music, must be an art which is born 
in one, for a pretty rotten job I made of it, however 
hard I tried. 

While in the seamanship section we also spent a cer- 
tain portion of the time working at navigation and 
pilotage under the orders of the Lieutenant (N), Mr. 
Hodder. One of us was always detailed as his per- 
sonal assistant, or “Tanky,” as we called it, and whilst 


Ups and Downs 


111 

with him we were taught to put into practice all the 
mass of theory which we had learnt before. We took 
sights of the sun and stars with our sextants and 
worked them out to find the latitude and longitude. 
The moon we left severely alone, for, as Mr. Hodder 
explained, she moved through space with such “explo- 
sive violence” that the slightest error in taking the 
observation put the ship many miles out in her reck- 
oning. We were taught what effect magnetism had on 
a compass and how to allow for it; to find the devia- 
tion of the compass by taking bearings of distant 
objects, the sun, and “heavenly bodies.” (I love that 
term “heavenly bodies.” It is so essentially mediaeval, 
and reminds one of the days when seafaring gentle- 
men in armour took their sights with the astrolabe.) 

We were told the uses of the Flinders bar and the 
soft iron spheres in compass correction; how to wind 
and look after chronometers, and to ascertain their 
error on Greenwich Mean Time by observations of the 
sun or the daily time signal from the Eiffel Tower 
in Paris. We also discovered that it was part of the 
duty of the Sergeant Major of Marines, of all peo- 
ple, to report “Chronometers wound, sir!” daily to 
the Captain at 9 a.m. He invariably reported it as 
“Chronometers wounded !” 

We learnt how to correct charts; to use sounding 
machines; to keep the ship’s reckoning at sea, and to 
fix the position on the chart by means of cross-bear- 
ings. We were instructed in the system of buoyage; 
the difference between occulting, flashing, revolving, 
alternating, and fixed lights — in fact there was very 


132 


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little that we were not taught, and if I set forth all 
we were supposed to have learnt I should write a 
very comprehensive treatise in seventeen volumes on 
Practical Navigation and Pilotage. Some of it has 
stuck, thank goodness! 

Whilst at gunnery, too, we were handed over to the 
tender mercies of the ist Lieutenant, Mr. Tompion, 
who was also our gunnery officer. For the first week 
or so with him we were passed on to a Gunner’s Mate 
and initiated into the mysteries of the rifle and field 
exercise, when, arrayed in flannel trousers and sea- 
man’s brown canvas gaiters, without which, I am told, 
it is quite impossible to learn gunnery, we spent many 
mornings and afternoons shouldering, sloping, trail- 
ing, securing, and presenting arms. Presenting arms 
with the bayonet fixed was always the most exciting 
evolution of the lot, for, with any luck, one might 
push the point of the bayonet through the quarter- 
deck awning overhead — until the Commander hap- 
pened to notice our innocent diversion. 

Having done this we drilled with the 12-pounder, 
9.2, and 12-inch guns; learnt, or were told, how T the 
guns were worked, loaded, and fired; and took parts 
of them to bits and put them together again. We 
crawled round the hydraulic machinery of the heavy 
gun turrets to cover ourselves with oil and to make 
ourselves acquainted with valves and pipes. We learnt 
about cordite, powder, shell of all sorts, fuses, and 
cartridges. We examined the rockets, blue-lights, and 
other fireworks with which the ship was supplied, 
and incidentally succeeded in purloining and conceal- 


Ups and Downs 


133 


ing on our persons certain of their dangerous 
contents. We held a highly successful firework dis- 
play in the gunroom flat the same evening before 
turning in — or it would have been successful if we 
hadn’t filled the whole place with evil-smelling smoke 
and set Prescott’s pyjamas alight. It was the smoke 
and our howls of delight which brought Rawson out 
of his cabin to see what was happening, and, as we 
were all more or less implicated, we all received con- 
dign punishment then and there with “Little Benja- 
min.” Lord! How he hurt in pyjamas! 

In torpedo work and electricity we followed the 
same thorough routine, being taught to take the 
“mouldies” 1 to bits and to put them together again, 
to adjust them for running, and to fire them. We 
played with gyroscopes, dynamos, motors, and electric 
circuits, and generally had the time of our lives in 
giving ourselves and each other electric shocks. It 
was hopelessly impossible to learn all the ins and outs 
of the complicated business in a month’s instruction, 
and I cannot remember exactly how much I assimi- 
lated during the period. But it was an interesting sub- 
ject, and our natural curiosity for finding out the 
why and wherefore of everything certainly stood us in 
good stead. 

For the last two months of the cycle we were 
handed over to the Engineer-Commander, who, in 
his turn, passed us on to the Senior Engineer. He put 
us in charge of Nichols, who first gave us a few lec- 

1 “Mouldies,” i.e. torpedoes. A nickname of fairly recent 
birth, but the exact origin of which I am unable to discover. 


134 


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tures on theory to refresh our failing memories, and 
then we went below and spent the rest of the period 
in practical work in the engine-room and stokeholds. 
We were regarded as part and parcel of the engineer- 
ing branch, taking part in the engineering work of 
the ship so far as we were capble of doing so, keep- 
ing our regular four hours on watch and eight off with 
the ship at sea, and being kept with our noses to the 
grindstone throughout the working day whilst in har- 
bour. I think on the whole it was the most strenuous 
portion of our training, but the chief joy of it was 
that our routine was more or less cut and dried, and 
we knew exactly what was expected of us. 

When the two months’ engineering were over the 
cycle started afresh and we reverted to seamanship 
again, until, at the end of one year’s time at sea, we 
became “Senior midshipmen.” Instruction was then 
reduced to a bare minimum, and we took a more re- 
sponsible part as officers in the general work of the 
ship. 

ii 

It does not follow, because we were generally busy 
on board, that we had no recreation. On the contrary. 
Except for some of the engineering snotties, and those 
keeping watch and running boats, Saturday and Sun- 
day were holidays, save that on Sunday mornings we 
wrote up our journals ready for the Captain’s signa- 
ture. 

On these two days, having placed our names in 
the “leave book,” which had to be signed by the Com- 


Ups and Downs 


135 


mander, 1st Lieutenant, Senior Engineer Lieutenant, 
Padte, and the Lieutenants (G), (T), and (N), all 
of whom were empowered to stop our leave if we had 
been idle, but very rarely did, we could go ashore at 
1. 15 in the afternoon and remain till 7. On the other 
days of the week, provided we had no duty on board, 
we could “take the beach” from 3.30 till 7. On a 
rough weekly average, therefore, we could, if we 
wanted to, get ashore on either Saturday or Sunday 
for the whole afternoon, with about two half after- 
noons if the ship was in harbour. 

Late leave had to be asked for specially, and even 
then was rarely granted unless we had been asked to 
dine with friends, or something of the kind. The 
Commander was very strict on this point. He said he 
wasn’t going to have his snotties “beer swilling and 
bar loafing,” and even an innocent visit to a theatre 
or a music-hall was regarded with some suspicion un- 
less we were going with one or other of the senior 
officers. 

But we had some very amusing afternoons, never- 
theless, and the most entertaining one of all, which 
will always stick in my memory, was when a party of 
us midshipmen, with old Nichols, landed on a stream- 
ing wet day in a certain naval port in the West 
Country. 

Have you ever attended one of those auctions where 
plausible Israelites dispose of so-called bankrupt 
stocks, unredeemed pledges, and goods left in railway 
carriages and cloak-rooms to more gullible, common- 
or-garden Gentiles? 


136 


The Sub 


Far be it for me to scoff at a Jew, but these par- 
ticular auctions savour of the miraculous. You can 
buy anything from a watch or an umbrella to a hand- 
painted vase or an “Old Master.” 

I may be a fool, but I am not a ruddy fool, as some- 
body wiser than myself once remarked. I am aware, 
from bitter experience, that folk do sometimes leave 
their umbrellas in railway carriages; but I have yet 
to learn that one hundred and forty-four umbrellas 
of precisely similar appearance can be left in one hun- 
dred and forty-four different railway carriages by one 
hundred and forty-four different people. No, I can- 
not believe it. It seems almost as if one man made a 
habit of it. 

I do not blame a man for pawning his watch, 
though he is never likely to leave it in a cloak-room — 
or at least, I shouldn't. I might leave a grandfather 
clock or an ormolu timepiece if I had happened to 
purchase one on the spur of the moment; never a 
watch. But even supposing two hundred and eighty- 
eight men bought and pawned two hundred and 
eighty-eight watches, all rolled gold, split second, 
jewelled in twenty-six places watches, do you think 
for one instant that they would be precisely alike? 
I don't. 

The same with hand-painted vases and “Old Mas- 
ters.” People don’t leave such things sculling about 
in cloak-rooms or railway trains. I mean, if you had 
attended a genuine sale and had bought a genuine 
“Old Master” which you had had your eye upon for 
years, carrying it off with you in triumph, you might 


Ups and Downs 


137 


be tempted to remark, or your wife might, “Dear, 
dear I Where is the Old Master ?” on arriving at 
home without it. Moreover, all old vases and hand- 
painted masters ... I am getting mixed. 

What I do mean is that a party of us once beguiled 
the tedium of a wet and boring afternoon by visiting 
one of these “auctions.” It was better than any 
music-hall, far and away better. I came out of it with 
a black eye and a swollen lip. Old Nichols had his 
collar torn and the coat stripped off his back. Not one 
of us got away without damage of some kind. Who- 
ever heard of a well-fought battle in which the victors 
came off scathless ? 

So if somebody you are not particularly keen upon 
comes to tea, or a maiden aunt pays you an unex- 
pected visit and you don't know how to entertain 
her, take my tip, take them to an “auction,” and do 
as we did. 

I'll guarantee you will have the time of your lives. 
Your guests will never, never forget it, nor, though 
she may possibly cut you out of her will, will the 
maiden aunt ever forget you. 

It was a pestilential day, not the usual drizzle, but 
a regular downpour which soaked one through to the 
very marrow. We had gone ashore at 3.30 with no 
fixed intention of doing anything in particular, and, 
having disposed of a satisfactory tea at a restaurant, 
it was Nichols who suggested that he would like to 
buy an umbrella. So the five of us snotties volun- 
teered to go and help him, and, sallying forth, we 
marched off down the main street. 


,£ 25,000 


£25,000. 

HAVING PURCHASED UNREDEEMED PLEDGES, BANKRUPT STOCK, 
AND UNCLAIMED GOODS TO THE VALUE OF £25,000, WE 
HAVE LEASED THESE PREMISES FOR ONE WEEK ONLY TO 
DISPOSE OF THE SAME TO THE PUBLIC AT. ROCK BOTTOM 
PRICES. 

STOCK POSITIVELY MUST BE CLEARED. 

SALES DAILY AT 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9 p. m. prompt. 


If you require a MANGLE, PERAMBULATOR, CLOCK, 
or a set of KITCHEN UTENSILS, we will provide 
them. WE PROVIDE EVERYTHING. 


EASY PAYMENTS ARRANGED QN APPLICATION. 


PATRONISED BY THE NOBILITY AND GENTRY. 


TO PEOPLE ABOUT TO MARRY. 
TO THOSE ALREADY MARRIED. 
DO YOU WANT TO FIJRNISH A 
HOUSE? 

IF SO, STEP INSIDE. 


WE HAVE NO CONNECTION WITH ANY OTHER FIRM. 






Ups and Downs 


139 


“Here’s the very place!” said Nick, halting in front 
of a building which had once been a shop, but now 
had its plate glass windows plastered all over with 
advertisements in brilliant blue and red lettering. 

So, as the picture houses were not open, and it was 
a case of any port in a storm, we marched in. It was 
dry inside, at any rate, and we had a full two hours 
to waste before we could catch the 7 o’clock boat back 
to the ship. 

The floor space of the room in which we found 
ourselves had been cleared of its shop furniture, and 
along the far end of it ran a long wooden counter 
laden with a choice assortment of glittering cruets, 
electro-plated teapots, ditto fish-knives and forks, to- 
gether with many watches in cases, vases of highly 
decorative design, shaving sets, hair-brushes, and 
other articles to tempt the eye of the unwary , pur- 
chaser. Behind the barrier rose a small pulpit-like 
contrivance occupied by the auctioneer, a seedy, oleagi- 
nous person of distinct Hebraic appearance with long, 
dank hair, dirty collar and hands, rather an aggressive 
manner, and a Cockney twang. 

The side walls were well supplied with shelves on 
which reposed the “articles of vertu” in the shape of 
a further assortment of glass and china vases of lurid 
colouring, certain of them labelled in gold “A present 
from Margate.” These were evidently the bankrupt 
stock. Then there were whole battalions of noisily 
ticking clocks of rococo appearance in wood, metal, 
and china; numbers of small bronze busts of Queen 
Victoria, King Edward, Queen Alexandra, Lord Rob- 


140 


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erts, and other royal and titled notabilities; several 
statuettes of prancing horses in imitation bronze; 
some accordions and other musical instruments, and 
a heterogeneous collection of china, glass, crockery’, 
plate, cutlery, and roller skates. 

Ranged on the floor underneath the shelves were 
three perambulators, two obviously second-hand ; rolls 
of oilcloth; a carpet or two; a mowing machine long 
past its early youth; one armchair covered in faded 
cretonne; a selection of rickety bedroom chairs in 
white enamel; a rocking chair rather the worse for 
wear; one lady's bicycle; three “scooters” ; some car- 
pet sweepers ; two small vacuum cleaners in post-office 
red; a couple of mangles; dozens of umbrellas and 
walking-sticks; dust-pans and brushes, brooms, mops, 
jugs and basins, tin buckets, saucepans, pots and pans 
r . . . I cannot remember what else. 

Hanging from hooks on the walls were many mir- 
rors and pictures. Some were framed in plush, and 
many of the looking-glasses had their faces orna- 
mented with sprigs of green bulrushes and bunches of 
hectic roses in oil paint, obviously the work of an 
amateur. The pictures were scarcely more exciting. 
Half a dozen of them gave a life-like view of a por- 
tion of a dining table, with a scarlet lobster on a blue 
dish in the immediate foreground, a half-emptied glass 
of wine on the right front, and a tall fruit dish con- 
taining a bunch of purple grapes, three bananas, an 
orange, and a bunch of what I took to be radishes, 
lurking in the background. They, too, were hand- 


Ups and Downs 


ill 

painted, and the mind of the “old master” responsible 
for the series evidently ran upon food. 

Some of the other works of art showed sorely tried 
lighthouses on dangerous-looking clusters of rocks 
with waves breaking all over them; sheep grazing in 
an expanse of snow with the moon shining through 
spidery trees in the background; and three “antique” 
oleographs of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort 
reviewing the volunteers in Hyde Park in eighteen- 
fifty something. 

The people present can hardly have been satisfac- 
tory from the point of view of the auctioneer. An 
elderly, red-faced farmer and his wife, obviously out 
for the day, were abusing the weather. Four rau- 
cous-voiced youths, caps askew, cigarettes pendant 
from their lower lips, and attended by the same num- 
ber of gaudily attired young women who partook of 
occasional nourishment from paper bags, spent their 
time in twitting the auctioneer and his assistants. 
They had obeyed the injunction to “Walk in!” and 
were clearly taking shelter from the rain. 

Three stokers from the Royal Naval Barracks were 
discussing the merits of the lawn-mower as being 
something in the mechanical line, while two middle- 
aged ladies of rather chastened appearance in bonnets, 
notebooks in hand, were solemnly appraising a set 
of fire-irons and the bedroom suite in white enamel. 
There must have been thirty people present altogether, 
but besides the bonneted females the only really gen- 
uine purchasers were a lance-corporal of the Royal 
Marines and his fiancee, who, arm in arm, had already 


142 


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bought a brass fern pot and a paraffin lamp, and were 
now gazing longingly at one of the electro-plated 
cruets. They were evidently furnishing their future 
home. 

The sale must have been hanging fire, for the auc- 
tioneer’s face brightened visibly as we appeared. 

“The next lot we ’ave to dispose of, ladies and 
gents,” he said cheerfully, selecting ari imitation 
leather case and flashing the contents before our eyes, 
“is a set of gents’ studs and cuff-links. These harti- 
cles would make a nice little keepsake from any wife 
to ’er ’usband, or from a sweet’eart to ’er in- 
tended ...” 

Loud giggles from the four young women. 

“ ’Ere we ’ave the genuine harticle, reel rolled gold, 
’all marked throughout, and guaranteed to wear for 
twenty years without tamishin’. Naow don’t get run- 
nin’ away with the idea that I’m tryin’ to sell you 
rubbish. Fair play and fair prices is my motter, and 
these harticles ’ave stood the test of time. They’re 
made by hexperts, and the workmanship and chasin’ 
is the ’ighest form of the jooler’s hart. Naow, ladies 
and gents, what am I hoffered for this most hexquisite 
addition to any gent’s dressin’ table ?” 

“Give yer a tanner, guv’nor,” sniggered one of the 
youths. 

“Come, sir. Be serious!” chided the auctioneer. 
“Sixpence for these ’ighly hornamented . . . Dear, 
dear ! George ?” 

One of the oily-faced assistants stepped forward. 

“George! Display to the distinguished company 


Ups and Downs 


143 


’ere assembled this magnificent set of harticles, the like 
of which could be worn by the ’ighest in the land and 
could not be purchased at any shop in the town under 
the price of ’arf a guinea!” 

“Naow, ladies and gents!” when “George” had dis- 
played the shoddy things. “What am I hoffered?” 

“Eightpence !” said the lance-corporal of Marines. 

“Tenpence!” from one of the youths. 

“Make it a bob!” from the marine, eyeing his rival 
while his own fiancee looked at him with perturbed 
admiration. 

“One and a tanner,” said one of the youths. 

“One and eight,” said I. 

“Two bob,” from Nichols, who had just drawn his 
month’s pay. 

“Two and a penny,” from myself. 

There was a dead silence in which everybody 
looked at me. I blushed a rosy red. 

“Two and a penny is what I’m hoffered,” said the 
auctioneer blithely, raising his hammer. “Any ad- 
vance on two and a penny? Going for two and a 
penny! Going! Going! . . . Gorn!” 

And so, for the modest sum of five-and-twenty 
pence I found myself the proud possessor of the most 
shoddy and atrocious set of studs and cuff-links which 
it has ever been my lot to purchase. They were pos- 
sibly worth one shilling, and I did not want them in 
the very least. I had only made my bid for the pure 
fun of the thing, and if the others hadn’t left me in 
the lurch in that rotten way ... No. I was had for 
a juggins. 


144 


The Sub 


I subsequently gave the horrible things to my serv- 
ant as a token of my regard on his birthday. He 
thought them very beautiful and was deeply grateful. 

The sale went on and more and more people ar- 
rived. The lance-corporal of Marines, who evidently 
had more money than sense, bought a bronze stat- 
uette, a hearthrug, two tin pails, and a pie-dish — and 
would have bought a great deal more if his young 
woman, who obviously had her head screwed on the 
right way, had not entered a firm protest against 
further reckless expenditure. The two bonneted 
ladies, sisters or cousins, I should think, made their 
purchases jointly, and besides the bedroom suite and 
the fire-irons, obtained a second-hand carpet sweeper, 
a vacuum cleaner, and a collection of three brooms, 
two mops, with three or four scrubbing-brushes 
thrown in as a make-weight. Evidently cleanliness 
came next to godliness in their creed, though I thought 
it my bounden duty to point out to them that the cir- 
cular brush of the carpet sweeper was very bald. They 
thanked me gratefully for my perspicuity in noting 
the defect and insisted on an exchange, to which the 
auctioneer, glaring at me as if I was a wild beast, 
reluctantly consented. 

I hugged myself with joy. 

Then old Nichols, who thought he was bidding for 
an umbrella, found he had bought a mirror in a plush 
frame for five and sixpence. 

He didn’t want the beastly thing, he said. He re- 
quired an umbrella. Then why on earth couldn’t he 
be a little more careful, the Hebrew in the pulpit 


Ups and Downs 


145 


wanted to know. A sale was a sale, everybody knew 
that. Nick would be “jiggered in heaps” before he’d 
pay a penny for the beastly looking-glass. The auc- 
tioneer had distinctly said he was selling the umbrella, 
and how in the name of heaven could anybody under- 
stand what was going on if he was fool enough to 
hold up a mirror in one hand and an umbrella in the 
other. He’d go and fetch a policeman and ask him 
what he thought about it. Loud cries of corroboration 
and approbation from all of us. Evil glances from 
the auctioneer, who, with the majority against him, 
could do nothing but declare the transaction null and 
void. 

We became intensely unpopular. 

A slight diversion and some inconvenience was 
caused at this juncture by the purloining of the auc- 
tioneer’s hammer by one of the youths, who held a 
mock auction of his own in one corner of the room 
and disposed of six pictures and a carpet to one of the 
bonneted ladies for one and sevenpence. Lengthy 
explanations and much annoyance on the part of the 
salesman and his assistants before the purchaser could 
be induced to believe that the sale of these articles was 
not strictly genuine. Would the gentleman respon- 
sible for the fracas “be’ave ’imself or git out”? 

No. He would not. 

Would George and h’ Albert, the assistants, kindly 
show the gentleman to the door and cause himself to 
remove his obnoxious presence immediately? But the 
two mercenaries, puny and undersized, summed up 


146 


The Sub 


their burlier opponent and observed sapiently that 
they did not believe in “vi’lence.” 

Just as well they didn’t, said the opponent, ’cos 
they’d get a thick ear else. He’d blinkin’ well teach 
’em to try to stop a feller from having his bit o’ fun. 

All right, the auctioneer agreed, the gentleman 
might stay, but he must be’ave ’imself. 

He’d jolly soon see about that, the youth replied 
warmly, adding in a strident afterthought that he 
strongly disapproved of the personal appearance of 
the auctioneer and his hired assassins, and that, strictly 
speaking, their methods of business ought to be en- 
quired into by the police. 

The master of the ceremonies affected not to hear 
these personal imputations. Suppressed titters from 
everybody. Atmosphere very electric. Nervous 
glances at the door on the part of the bonneted ladies 
and the Royal Marine’s fiancee. 

The last straw which broke the camel’s back and 
occasioned the disturbance was a rolled-gold, fully 
guaranteed, half-hunter watch sold to another of the 
youths for some sum which I cannot remember. He 
paid the money and received the article in exchange, 
only to raise his voice in loud expostulation a moment 
later when, in the process of winding the watch, some- 
thing snapped with an ominous click. 

“ ’Ere, mister !” he shouted, holding it aloft. “This 
bloomin’ thing’s bust! I wants me money back!” 

“Pardon me, sir,” said the auctioneer with a suave 
and oily smirk. “You broke it yerself. You can’t 


Ups and Downs 


147 


expect no decent watch to stand being wound up like 
that/' 

“Wound up like wot, you ugly Sheeny! I tells you 
I wound ’im quite ord’nary like, and the spring goes 
click at once. I wants . . 

“Look ’ere, mister,” began the auctioneer, descend- 
ing from his perch, but remaining discreetly behind 
the counter. “Look ’ere. I don’t stand no hinsults. 
You jest keep a civil tongue in your ’ead! I’ve ’ad 
enough trouble from you and your party already. 
You come ’ere and kicks up a shindy ...” 

“Oh, shut your ’ead, you ugly reptile!” retorted 
the complainant. “I wants a noo watch or me money 
back. That’s flat, ain’t it?” 

“Them watches is guaranteed for five years,” put 
in George, the assistant, who was standing among the 
audience. “Wif’ careful treatment they’ll last an ord’- 
nary lifetime, but if you goes ...” 

“And ’00 asked you a question, Mister Nasty face?” 
demanded the youth in a shrill crescendo, and getting 
redder and redder about the face. “Look ’ere! I 
comes ’ere to buy a watch an' I’ve been swindled, 
that’s wot it is. Now look ’ere, either you give me 
a noo watch or else I’ll ’ave me money back, 
if . . 

“You won’t get neither,” interrupted the auction- 
eer, “and the sooner you gets outa my shop the better. 
George, do your dooty ! Put ’im outside !” 

“You try it on, Nastyface, and see wot you gets!” 
spluttered the youth, hitching up his coat sleeves. 


148 


The Sub 


“You catch ’im one on the conk if ’e tries to touch 
yer, Bert,” advised one of his friends. 

“PH do the dirty on ’im some’ow, the pimple-faced 
lih Sheeny,” growled Bert the belligerent, advancing 
threateningly. 

George promptly scuttled behind the counter like a 
frightened rabbit and joined his master, while h’ Al- 
bert, the other assistant, hemmed in on all sides and 
unable to retreat, affected an overwhelming interest in 
the rocking-chair. 

The young women hugged their respective swains 
by the arm and giggled nervously. The farmer and 
his wife, scenting a row, departed in a hurry, while 
the Royal Marine was towed reluctantly from the room 
by his frightened fiancee. The two bonneted ladies, 
also, explaining that they would call again for their 
bulkier purchases, darted forth like a couple of flus- 
tered chickens. They all reminded me of the rats 
deserting a sinking ship. I held my breath and 
waited. 

“Now look ’ere,” Bert exclaimed. “I don’t care ’00 
you are or wot you are. Either I gets a noo watch or 
else ...” 

“You won’t get neither, I tells you,” the auctioneer 
hurled back with some heat. “Carn’t you ...” 

“I’ll ’ave my money’s worth, any’ow!” bellowed 
Bert, seizing a small but heavy plaster bust of Lord 
Charles Beresford from the shelf beside him and hurl- 
ing it full at the auctioneer. 

That wily Israelite promptly ducked behind the 
counter, while the missile sailed over his head, burst 


Ups and Downs 


149 


against a shelf behind him like a lyddite shell, and, 
amidst a chorus of screams from the ladies, brought 
several rows of china vases and teapots crashing to 
the floor in a thousand pieces. 

“H’Albert!” came a muffled shriek from behind the 
counter. “IT Albert! Run quick an’ fetch the per- 
lice !” 

Albert looked at the door and tried to edge away. 

“No you don't,” said another of Bert’s friends, 
seizing him round the middle as he attempted to fly. 
“You’ll stay ’ere with your pals, my son,” and with 
that he carried his shrilly protesting victim across the 
room, and deposited him flat on the counter among 
the cruets and cases of fish-knives. 

“Stay quiet, carn’t you!” came a growl, as the re- 
cumbent one lashed out with his feet. 

Albert’s only reply was to kick his assailant in the 
stomach, whereupon the latter slid him slowly across 
the counter and allowed him to fall, together with a 
shower of electro-plated goods, on to the heads of 
his two friends taking cover below. 

“I’ll ’ave the perlice on you for this, see if I don’t!” 
shrilled the auctioneer, putting his head up like a jack- 
in-the-box. 

“Will yer give me a noo watch or me money 
back?” howled the redoubtable Bert, waiting with an 
alarm-clock poised ready in his hand. 

“No!” from the auctioneer. “You’ll go to prison 
for this, see if you ...” 

The rest of the sentence was inaudible in the crash 
of riven crockery as the fresh projectile, narrowly 


The Sub 


150 

missing his head, ricochetted off the counter, shot 
into a laden shelf, and brought a pile of plates hurtling 
to the floor. 

“Look here,” said Nichols to the thrower. “Hadn't 
you better stop this? It’s getting beyond a joke!” 

“And ’00 are you talkin' to, mister?” demanded 
Bert, too heated and annoyed to care what he said or 
how he said it, and holding a china vase in his hand 
ready for another shot. “What's this 'ere gotter do 
with you ?'' 

“Simply that you’re making a confounded nuisance 
of yourself,” said Nick. “You’ll get yourself into 
trouble if you don’t watch it!” 

“But wot’s it gotter do with you?” 

“Nothing, but you’d better put that vase down at 
once! If you don’t, I’ll make you!” 

The next moment the ornament in question caught 
him in the vicinity of the third waistcoat button, and 
Nick didn’t wait for any more. He seized the unfor- 
tunate Bert by the waist, swung him off his feet, de- 
posited him with a crash on the floor, and then sat 
calmly on his chest. 

“Ow, ow!” piped one of the girls, rushing in to 
the rescue of her champion. “ ’E’s killin’ my sweet- 
'eart! Pull 'im orf quick!” 

She, not to be behindhand, kicked and tugged at 
Nichols from behind. The fat was now properly in 
the fire. 

In the excitement of the moment the auctioneer and 
his assistants were quite forgotten, for in another in- 
stant Nick and us five snotties were fighting tooth and 


Ups and Downs 15 1 

nail against the four youths and their female belong- 
ings. They were lusty girls too, regular Amazons, 
and the worst of it was we couldn’t hit them, what- 
ever they did to us. 

It was a stiff tussle, but it was all so confused that 
I hardly know what happened, except that we even- 
tually got the best of it. One of the ladies, a heavy 
young woman, hit me in the mouth with her fist and 
made it bleed, whereupon I, unwilling to take sterner 
measures, seized her hands and held them fast. Whilst 
doing this somebody else considerately clouted me on 
the ear and kicked me hard from behind, so I had to 
let go. Next I saw Sandilands attacked by a fellow 
about twice his size, so I ran at his opponent with my 
head down, butted him heavily in the stomach, and 
we all three tumbled headlong to the floor. All this 
time old Nick was fighting valiantly, and at times I 
caught a glimpse of him with one fellow in each hand 
knocking their heads together. 

The crockery crashed. The articles of vertu, the 
looking-glasses, teapots, pictures, vases, and roller 
skates came hurtling and tumbling to the floor as the 
bodies of the fighters impinged heavily against the 
shelves. The ladies screamed wild imprecations and 
their young men reviled us with every undesirable epi- 
thet they could lay their tongues to. We were far 
too breathless to think of retaliating by word of 
mouth, we merely fought, and fought, and fought. 

The auctioneer and his assistants, too terrified to 
join in lest they should be set upon by both parties, 
kept their heads above the counter and regarded us 


152 


The Sub 


in horror-stricken amazement. It must have been a 
terrible scene : a regular Waterloo. 

But at last the gentleman called Bert, the originator 
of the whole business, dabbed a gory handkerchief 
to his nose and held up a hand in token of surrender. 

“Cheese it, gov’nor,” he gasped to Nichols, who was 
about to make another assault. “We’ve ’ad enough!” 

“Call your people off, then,” ordered Nick, very 
red in the face and breathing like a steam-engine. 

“ ’Ere, chuck it, boys,” the ringleader commanded. 
“Liz, leave that young gennel’man alone, carn’t yer!” 
This last to the stalwart young fairy who was busy 
kicking my shins while I held her hands to prevent my 
eyes being scratched out. 

So an armistice was declared, and we drew off to 
count our casualties. Nick had his coat stripped off 
his back in two pieces, his collar torn, and a scratch 
down his right cheek. I had a bleeding and swollen 
lip and a jolly good imitation of a black eye, while 
Mery on’s nose was spouting gore all down the front 
of his waistcoat. Not one of us was untouched. 

But our opponents were much worse, while two of 
their Amazons, flushed, vituperant, and breathless, 
had their hair down and were sobbing on each other’s 
shoulders. A third, the one who had smitten me in 
the mouth, had had her hat torn from her head in 
the struggle and was regarding the battered remains 
of her headgear which she had retrieved from the 
broken glass and crockery littering the floor. It, the 
hat, had been well trampled upon during the fight. I 
only hope that Bert was made to pay for a new one. 


Ups and Downs 


153 


“And ’00, may I be so bold as to hask, is goin’ to 
pay for the damage to my stock?” wailed the auction- 
eer, rising from behind his counter like Venus from 
the waves and gazing ruefully at the debris-strewn 
battlefield. “There’s five ’undred pounds’ worth of 
goods been ruined, and ’00 is goin’ to pay for it ?” 

“Five hundred fiddlesticks!” grunted Nick, trying 
to make himself presentable. “The contents of your 
whole bally establishment aren’t worth twenty pounds 
all told!” 

“But ’00 is goin’ to pay?” 

“I’m not, at any rate. You’d better ask these gen- 
tlemen,” said Nick, pointing to Bert and his party. 

“Come on, you fellows,” he added to us. “We’ll 
g°” 

So we shook the dust of the establishment from 
off our feet with the uncomplimentary remarks of the 
auctioneer still ringing in our ears. We left belliger- 
ent Bert and his friends to square their own yard- 
arms, and what the outcome of the business was I 
don’t pretend to know. But three days later, when 
Nichols next went ashore (I, unfortunately, was not 
permitted to land on account of a black eye and a cut 
on the lip sustained by falling down a hatchway after 
dark), the Cockney-Hebrew and his compatriots had 
departed on a pilgrimage and their erstwhile auction- 
room was in the process of being refitted as a sixpenny 
bazaar. 

So this was the end of that adventure, an episode 
which I am never likely to forget, for it is the first 
and the last time that I have ever been knocked about 


154 


The Sub 


by a lady. I don’t say, mark you, that it is fit and 
proper for an officer of His Majesty’s Navy to take 
part in brawls in a public auction-room. In fact, it 
is downright undignified, and I am not certain that in 
so doing one does not render oneself liable to trial by 
Court Martial for conduct unbecoming an officer and 
a gentleman. 

But we were in plain clothes, and the fight, such as 
it was, was forced upon us. Nick had been doing his 
best to quell the riot when the fellow flung the vase 
at him. Would you, gentle reader, turn the other 
cheek if some rapscallion of a fellow hurled a china 
vase at you which smote you in the blouse, shirt-waist, 
waistcoat, chest-protector, or whatever else it is you 
happen to wear over that particular portion of your 
anatomy? 

No, no! Of course you would not. Flesh and blood 
could not stand it. Neither could we. 

Our conduct may have been undignified and unoffi- 
cerlike, but it was a gorgeous afternoon to look back 
upon, nevertheless. 


CHAPTER VII 


Promotion 

r 

I NEED hardly describe in detail the whole of my 
two and a half years' service as a midshipman. 
I spent the entire period in the Pericles , and in 
course of time when the old lot of senior snotties be- 
came Acting Sub-Lieutenants and left the ship, we 
then became the seniors, and a new lot of crabs, fresh 
from the training cruisers, joined in our stead and 
took our former burden of juniority on their shoul- 
ders. It was then, I think, when we were no longer 
the meanest creatures in the gunroom, that we started 
really to enjoy life. 

There was not much variety in the itinerary of the 
Pericles. Throughout the thirty odd months I served 
in her we visited the same old places and carried out 
the same old routine and the same old programme. 
Our headquarters were really at Portland, where, in 
Weymouth Bay, to be exact, we spent many days in 
steaming past our targets and carrying out our firing 
exercises. 

Gunnery was the great god who ruled us. We made 
daily obeisance unto him ; lived for him day and night, 
and everything, even the outward cleanliness of the 
155 


156 


The Sub 


ship, was sacrificed for his worship. And quite right 
too, for however clean a ship may look from the out- 
side, however smart her officers and men may pride 
themselves on being, she is a mere whited sepulchre 
if she cannot shoot. And hitting a dull smudge on 
the horizon at a range of fourteen sea miles or more 
is not a thing which is taught in a day or two. 

Berehaven, in Bantry Bay, was another favourite 
rendezvous for gunnery practices, and Lamlash, Ar- 
ran, another. But we had our diversions. At the 
first place we climbed Hungry Hill on Sunday after- 
noons, indulged in most exciting paper-chases on raw- 
boned Irish ponies, played golf, and sampled the milk 
and illicit pot-still whisky retailed by barefooted 
ladies in the little whitewashed cabins dotted all over 
the hillsides, habitations in which chickens, ducks, and 
a pig or two generally lived in the house cheek by 
jowl with their human friends. Indeed, a fowl usu- 
ally had to be “shooed” off the solitary chair before 
the guest could sit down. We also bought bog-oak or- 
naments and Irish crochet lace from the black shawled 
ladies who came on board with their bundles, and 
suit-lengths of so-called Irish frieze from the local 
merchants who insisted, by St. Patrick and all the 
other Saints in their calendar, that the shoddy mate- 
rial was woven by the poor peasants during the long 
days of winter. As a matter of fact, I believe much 
of it came from British looms in the Midlands, subse- 
quently to be sent to Bantry to be well impregnated 
with peat smoke before being disposed of to credulous 
naval officers, generally midshipmen. Mr. Slieve, to 


Promotion 


157 


whom we sometimes sent the frieze to be made up into 
golf jackets and knickerbockers, rather looked askance 
at it, as I imagine any decent tailor would. As an 
alternative, however, one could have the suit made up 
by a local tailor. One can always tell a Bantry suit. 
It fits where it touches. 

During the spring we sometimes went south across 
the Bay of Biscay to Arosa Bay and Vigo, while, about 
June, came the summer naval manoeuvres, when the 
crews of all the “nucloids” 1 were brought up to full 
strength and the whole fleet, divided into Red and 
Blue forces, fought with itself in a mimic war last- 
ing for ten days or a fortnight. After the manoeu- 
vres we settled down to a further programme of 
gunnery and torpedo practices which lasted well into 
the autumn. 

So, taking things all round, we spent no small por- 
tion of our time at sea; and even in harbour, what 
with coaling ship and a hundred and one other things, 
we were never idle. I know that the Commander, 
probably the busiest officer on board, rarely went 
ashore at all except for occasional week-ends. I think 
it is safe to say, moreover, that not a single moment, 
either at sea or in harbour, was ever wasted. There 
was always something or other going on, generally 
something to do with gunnery. 

Once a year we went to our home port, Chatham 
in our particular case, for the annual refit. This 
lasted between a month and five weeks, and officers 

1 “Nucloids, 1 " i.e. those ships manned by two-thirds of their 
proper complements. 


158 


The Sub 


and men were given leave for as long as they could 
be spared, generally for ten days or a fortnight. But 
in addition to this we also got on an average ten days’ 
leave at Christmas, seven days at Easter, and four 
after the manoeuvres. The regulations lay down that 
leave for officers is not to exceed six weeks per an- 
num except in very special circumstances, but few of 
us ever reached this amount. The elder married offi- 
cers, whose wives sometimes followed the ship from 
port to port, and always made their homes at 
Weymouth when we were there for the winter, did 
not do so badly. They got their Saturday to Monday 
“week-ends” fairly frequently, besides ordinary night 
leave during the week from 1.30 or so in the afternoon 
till 8.30 the next morning if the ship was in harbour 
and their services could be spared. 

In spite of our strenuous life, however, we had 
plenty of time for games. Golf we played every- 
where, and hockey and football if we could get a 
ground. Ship versus ship matches were constantly in 
the air, and if we were hard up for opponents for, 
say, a football match for the men, the Forecastlemen 
were always ready to challenge the Quarterdeckmen, 
the Maintopmen the Marines, and so on. 

Among the officers, too, we could generally raise 
two teams for football, hockey, or golf, and then we 
used to divide up into Married and Single, Bearded 
and Clean-shaven, and the S.O.B.’s and D.Y.F.’s. The 
S.O.B.’s. I should explain, were the “Silly Old Blight- 
ers,” or those officers over the mystic age of thirty-five, 
while the D.Y.F.’s were the “Dashed Young Fools” 


Promotion 


159 


under that age. No insult was meant, I assure you, for 
everybody, even including the Padre, was automat- 
ically one thing or the other. I am a D.Y.F. at the 
present moment; presently, in less years than I care 
to reckon, I shall become an S.O.B. But our S.O.B.’s 
in the Pericles, in spite of the fact that they were 
popularly supposed to have one foot in the grave, gen- 
erally managed to beat us at games. For one thing, 
they had more avoirdupois. 

Once a year came the squadron regatta and sports, 
while at frequent intervals our ‘Tunny Party,” or 
pierrot troupe, gave an entertainment on board to 
which we asked all our friends from other ships in 
the hope that they would return the compliment. 
They generally did. 

Our entertainments were very much the same as 
anyone else’s. We had the same “screaming farces,” 
generally home-made, with the funny man as a bu- 
colic butler, and burly, tattooed seamen dressed up as 
society ladies. 

We had our own expert dramatist in the shape of 
a ship’s steward’s assistant, who, having been a scene- 
shifter or call-boy in his early youth, was popularly 
supposed to have a profound knowledge of things the- 
atrical. At any rate, he always wrote the plays per- 
formed by our men’s Amateur Dramatic Society. 
From his productions I should imagine that he en- 
joyed a nodding acquaintance with the flower of the 
British aristocracy, for his villains were generally 
dukes or baronets, and the female characters, unless 
they were farmer’s daughters, invariably lived in Park 


i6o 


The Sub 


Lane. Moreover, our playwright’s mind ran in the 
Picture Palace or “Deadwood Dick” groove. Lethal 
weapons played a prominent part in his productions, 
and his dramas always included bombs and blood. I 
once counted no less than five “corpses” in a row upon 
the stage. 

Once we had a wicked squire in borrowed riding 
breeches who, in the intervals of smacking his gaiters 
with a hunting crop, and despite the fact that he had 
one wife already living, took a violent fancy to the 
beautiful daughter of one of his tenants, a farmer. 
Because she would not fly with him to some place 
unknown he induced the local policeman, the low com- 
edian who for ever made jokes anent mothers-in- 
law, seaside lodgings, and kippers, to evict the entire 
family from the farm they had occupied for the past 
five-and-twenty years. 

Poignant lamentations on the part of the family, 
and much “Cur-r-rse you, Sir ’Arry Fox!” from the 
aged grandfather, a decrepit old gentleman of any 
age between eighty and ninety-seven. Incidentally, 
grandpapa succeeded in winning much whole-hearted 
applause from a sympathetic audience by the trite re- 
mark, “Fox by naime and fox by nature !” 

Next, in the dead of night, the squire attempted to 
abduct the beautiful daughter in a motor-car. 

(A darkened stage for this, since the motor-car, a 
rickety concern of painted canvas, would not bear 
close inspection.) 

Loud screams from the daughter. Louder curses 
from the squire, for the grandfather, having discov- 


Promotion 


161 


ered the squire’s amiable intentions, had frustrated his 
scheme by slashing the tyres of the motor to ribbons 
with his trusty pocket-knife. 

‘‘Dastard!” screamed the aged one, appearing from 
behind a convenient tree at the critical moment. “Sir 
’Arry Fox! You are foiled! Thy sins 'ave found 
thee out !” 

“Cur-r-rse you!” retaliated the squire. “You shall 
di-hi for this!” and without further ado he drew a 
pistol and shot the poor old dear through the heart. 

(Loud cheers from the audience. Things were 
getting exciting.) 

The lovely daughter, meanwhile, had fainted, and 
the squire (he was also a “baronite,” by the way) 
was still wondering what to do to avoid being brought 
to trial for murder, when the band, very softly, started 
to play “The British Grenadiers.” After a lengthy 
pause, for he was late on his cue, in marched the hero, 
the girl’s true “lovah.” He, clad in a marine’s tunic 
and spurs, was supposed to represent a gallant ser- 
geant just home from the Indian frontier, where he 
had lately won the Victoria Cross and several other 
decorations. His arrival, apparently, was quite unex- 
pected. 

“Hum!” he remarked, eyeing poor grandpapa’s 
corpse with the unruffled, detective demeanour of a 
Sherlock Holmes. “Ha! There ’as bin foul play ’ere!” 

Then his eye happened to light upon Sir ’Arry with 
the girl in his arms. 

“At larst I” he shouted, springing straight at him. 
“At larst I ’ave you in me power!” Why “At larst!” 


The Sub 


162 

I don’t quite know. Evidently, without our knowl- 
edge, Sir ’Arry and the sergeant had been intro- 
duced before and had taken a mutual dislike to each 
other. 

The substantial lady dropped to the ground with a 
hollow thud, and a desperate struggle ensued. 

(More cheers, and howls of “Go it, Bertie!” from 
the enraptured onlookers.) 

Sir ’Arry got the worst of the encounter, and after 
some hammering was securely lashed to a tree. Hav- 
ing done this the sergeant next proceeded to comfort 
the daughter, and the scene ended with the happy 
couple billing and cooing, while the unfortunate squire, 
amidst the wild hissing of the audience, was dragged 
off to gaol by the witty policeman. 

But the story was not finished, for when the cur- 
tain next rose the soldier and his lady-love, sur- 
rounded by the entire family of the latter, were 
discovered sitting in the same chair reading the same 
morning paper. 

“ ’Ullo !” the sergeant observed, when the occupants 
of the back rows had regained their equanimity. 
“Wot ’ave we ’ere? 

“Yesterday mornin’ at eight h’o’clock,” he reads, 
“the notorious Sir ’Arry Fox, ’00 was convicted of 
the wilful murder of the much respected, late lamented 
Samuel Westgarth ...” 

(Loud sobbing and much display of handkerchiefs 
on the part of the family, while the sergeant, to keep 
them company, drew his hand before his mouth in a 


Promotion 163 

manner strangely reminiscent of a habit which obtains 
in public houses.) 

“• • • suffered the hextreme penalty of the lor at 
Pentonville gaol. Large crowds assembled to see the 
black flag ’oisted. Death was instantaneous. Billing- 
ton was the ’angman, and the condemned man pre- 
served ’is composure to the larst and partook of a 
’earty breakfast of fried ’am and heggs before settin’ 
out for the fatal scaffold !” 

(Loud and prolonged cheering from the audience.) 

But by some peculiar stroke of fortune the same 
newspaper contained another piece of news, for by 
some process unknown to me, but perhaps through the 
agony column, the gallant sergeant suddenly discov- 
ered that he was the murderer’s missing nephew and 
the heir to his title and millions. The ramifications 
of the family tree are still beyond my comprehension, 
but when the curtain finally went down the soldier was 
being addressed as “Sir Halfred” and the farmer’s 
daughter as “Laidy Rose,” from which it would seem 
that the couple had been married between the acts 
without the knowledge of the audience or the consent 
of the girl’s parents. 

So, except for the poor wicked baronet-squire and 
grandpapa — who, after all, had had his fair innings 
and couldn’t very well complain — everything ended 
quite happily, and “The Murderer’s Millions” or 
“Grandfather’s Revenge” was quite the most popular 
drama ever produced by the Pericles Amateur Dra- 
matic Society. At any rate, the performers were 
hugely pleased with themselves, and we, though not 


164 


The Sub 


exactly moved to tears, enjoyed it immensely. There 
was something very unconventional about the “Laidy 
Rose,” who, off the stage, was Able Seaman Dan 
Mason, the proud owner of the largest pair of feet 
in the ship. 

n 

There is a considerable difference in the status of 
a midshipman and an Acting Sub-Lieutenant, though 
the Acting Sub of to-morrow may have been the snotty 
of the day before yesterday. His pay, moreover, or 
rather his income, is not so very different, for while 
the midshipman gets his one and ninepence a day 
from the Government and £50 per annum from his 
people, the Acting Sub draws a daily honorarium of 
three and six together with a yearly allowance of 
about £25. This works out at £81 18 s. 9 d. a year in 
the case of the snotty, and £88 1 js. 6 d. for the Acting 
Sub. 

But the fact remains that the latter is an acting 
commissioned officer and wears a sword and the sin- 
gle gold stripe and curl on his coat sleeves. In fact, 
since he wears exactly the same uniform, one cannot 
tell him from a pukka Sub, while the possession of 
the stripe is supposed to endow him with experience, 
knowledge, and a dignity which he sometimes doesn’t 
possess. A midshipman, who still wears the white 
patches on his collar, and a dirk, can be forgiven 
a certain amount of ignorance, for he is still in the 
“young gentleman” or embryo stage, and can behave 


Promotion 165 

with a levity which would not be becoming in the 
wearer of a gold stripe. 

Examinations are often supposed to be the prin- 
cipal curse of the Navy, and it by no means follows 
that the fellow who is good at passing exams, will 
make the best practical officer. But even so I don't 
quite see how one could discover what people know 
without them. A man is not even allowed to ply for 
hire with a taxi in the streets of London until he 
has passed stringent tests, and can tell you, off-hand, 
the shortest and most expeditious route between Vic- 
toria Station, and say, 6, Lawn Road, Haverstock 
Hill, London, N.W.3. 

The Sub-Lieutenant, similarly, may, or probably 
will, one day find himself on the bridge of a destroyer 
in the Channel with other ships all round him, and 
he is a distinct danger to himself and his shipmates if 
he puts the helm the wrong way at the critical moment, 
neglects to call his commanding officer, crashes into 
something, and retires from the conflict with the bows 
of his ship crumpled as far as the bridge. Destroy- 
ers' bows do crumple in the most extraordinary way, 
and though collisions are not always brought about by 
Sub-Lieutenants — I know of several officers of far 
more seniority and experience who make a hobby of 
them — the Sub who is unfortunate enough to be the 
cause of one will find himself earmarked for life. 

“Oh, of course," someone will say in a wardroom 
in 1921. “Let's see, wasn't he the fellow who 
rammed that collier in the Channel in 1907?" 

So it behoves the Sub to be careful and competent, 


The Sub 


1 66 


and though lack of experience may be responsible for 
most of his difficulties, even experience loses its value 
unless he has a certain fundamental knowledge to 
which to apply it. A collision between two taxicabs 
is an unfortunate incident. A collision at sea may be 
a national calamity. 

To the “x chaser” the examinations which have to 
be passed at the end of his midshipman’s time present 
no very great terrors, but to the plodder, or to the 
young gentleman who has been habitually slothful, 
they are apt to be a very substantial nightmare. They 
certainly were in my case, for though the anticipation 
of the one and only exam. I did was far and away 
worse than the actual realisation, the prosperity of 
one’s future career depended so largely upon one’s 
success. 

In my time there were five subjects, Seamanship, 
Navigation, Gunnery, Torpedo, and Engineering, and 
in each one of these it was possible to obtain first, sec- 
ond, or third-class certificates, or else to fail 
altogether. Failure generally meant a loss of two or 
three months’ time. 

One was awarded so many points for each, “one” 
or “two,” and none at all for a “three,” 1 and upon 
the number of points one obtained depended the date 
on which one became a full-blown Lieutenant. It was 
worked on a sliding scale, and the “five oner” was 
promoted thirteen months after becoming an Acting 
Sub, and so on down to those who got five “threes” 

1 i.e . ist, 2 nd, or 3rd-class certificates, 


Promotion 


167 


and had to do about two years before getting their 
second stripe. 

The seamanship exam., which was almost entirely 
oral, took place after about two and a half years’ 
service afloat as a midshipman. It was final, and 
after passing it and the preliminary navigation test 
one was duly rated an Acting Sub-Lieutenant. Then, 
after a further three months at sea, one went up for 
preliminary examinations in gunnery and torpedo, 
and the final in engineering, after which one went to 
the Navigation School at Portsmouth for further 
short courses in navigation, gunnery, and torpedo. At 
the end of these one underwent the final exams, in 
these subjects. A proportion of the marks for the 
“preliminaries” counted in the final result, so one had 
to do no less than seven different exams, in five dif- 
ferent subjects in less than six months. 

Personally I passed in nothing but seamanship and 
preliminary navigation, for before I had time to do 
the others the Kaiser created his disturbance in Eu- 
rope and the Country and the Navy went to war, 
when the authorities naturally had no time to worry 
their heads about such trivialities on the seascape as 
snotties and Acting Subs. I shall always be grate- 
ful to the Kaiser for his intervention on my behalf, 
though I have several bones to pick with him on other 
subjects if ever we meet. 

So after two and a half years at sea, then, in June, 
1914, by which time I had absorbed a certain amount 
of worldly wisdom and was supposed to know far 
more than I actually did, I was haled with bated 


The Sub 


1 68 


breath and trembling limbs before a board of exam- 
iners in another ship to be tested touching my knowl- 
edge of the gentle art of seamanship. There were 
several of us up at the same time, and never shall I 
forget that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach 
when my immediate predecessor emerged from the 
torture chamber with a face like a sea-boot. 

"How did you get on ?” I asked him, collecting my 
journal and certificates. 

"Pretty mouldy,” said he. "They tore me absolute- 
ly to bits. Buck up, they’re waiting for you !” 

I approached the door of the Captain’s cabin with 
some trepidation. I felt rather like a blancmange, or 
an early, very early, Christian martyr about to be cast 
to the wild beasts. I knocked on the door and was 
bidden to enter. I entered, and found one Captain 
and two Commanders sitting round the long table. 
They all seemed to glare at me as I went in, one of 
them through a single eye-glass which made my blood 
run cold. 

Where had I seen that eye-glass before ? Of course, 
I suddenly remembered. Only a fortnight before, 
whilst playing golf, I had inadvertently driven off the 
tee before the party ahead of me had played their 
second strokes and were out of range. My drive, by 
some strange fluke, for I was never an expert at the 
game, was a low, straight "daisy-cutter” rising sweet- 
ly towards the end of its flight, and the ball skimmed 
past between one of the players and his caddie, to fall 
some distance beyond. The player, about to address 
his ball, threw down his club, turned round, inserted 



“WHERE HAD I SEEN THAT EYE-GLASS BEFORE?” 


















% 

4 





























































Promotion 


169 


a monocle in his eye, and glared at me. I could feel 
him glaring, even though he war fully a hundred 
yards away. 

“Dash it, sir!” he bellowed in a quarterdeck voice, 
shaking his fist in my direction. “Don’t you know the 
etiquette of the game?” 

I can’t remember what feeble excuse I made in re- 
ply. There was no excuse; but the irate gentleman 
with the eye-glass was now one of my examiners! 
He didn’t seem to recognise me, thank heaven ! 

“Sit you down, boy,” said the Captain, waving with 
a pencil at the vacant chair opposite him. “What’s 
your name?” 

“Munro, sir. David Munro.” 

“Ship?” 

“The Pericles, sir,” I told him. 

“Have you been in her the whole of your midship- 
man’s time ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Humph,” said the skipper, turning to my friend 
of the monocle. “Carew, ask him some questions in 
riggin’. That’s the first thing on the list. I only 
hope he knows more than the last fella’.” 

Commander Carew fixed me with a horny eye, an 
eye magnified out of all proportion by that terrible 
eye-glass. 

It would be tedious to give details of all the ques- 
tions I was asked and the answers I gave. Indeed, I 
cannot remember one tenth of them, but if any reader 
wishes to know the various branches of seamanship 
with which I was supposed to be thoroughly conver- 


170 


The Sub 


sant, I would gently refer him to Section (a), Para- 
graph 13, Part II, Appendix X of that massive and 
voluminous compilation, the King's Regulations and 
Admiralty Instructions. 

It must suffice when I say that the two Commanders 
succeeded pretty well in turning me inside out, while 
the Captain, throwing in a question every now and 
then, spent most of my five and forty minutes’ tor- 
ture in drawing pencil sketches of battleships and 
pretty ladies on sheet after sheet of foolscap, each of 
which he tore up in turn and added to the little pile 
in front of. him. 

I did not do exactly brilliantly, and I don’t think I 
made an abject ass of myself. For instance, in reply 
to the question, “What do you do as officer of the 
watch if a man falls overboard?” I did not answer, 
as a snotty once did, “Please, sir, I should call the 
Captain !” 

Xu, I wasn’t such a fool as that, for, to my intense 
surprise, I was informed that I had just succeeded in 
getting a “one,” which meant that I had made over 
85 per cent, of marks. 

There was some jubilation in the gunroom that 
night, jubilation at my expense. My parents, also, 
were wholly delighted, though it is true that my un- 
expected performance made my father the poorer by 
the sum of f 10, for he had offered me this as a reward 
for every first class I should obtain in my examina- 
tions. 

And a week later, having passed the preliminary 
navigation test, I shipped the stripe of an Acting Sub, 


Promotion 


171 


and towards the end of July, by which time the 
Pericles had gone to her home port, I was granted ten 
days’ leave with the prospect of undergoing further 
gunnery, torpedo, and engineering exams, in the mid- 
dle of September. 

Fate and the Kaiser did the rest, for, except for a 
few hours to collect my goods and chattels, I never 
served on board the Pericles again. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The War Cloud 

i 

T UESDAY, July 28th, 1914, was a typical sum- 
mer day. I had gone home on leave the previ- 
ous Saturday, and after three days of the free- 
and-easy existence ashore I was gradually becoming 
accustomed to the joyful luxury of turning out at 
eight o'clock, breakfasting at nine, and doing exactly 
as I liked throughout the day. And to people who 
are used to living on board a man-of-war a little free- 
dom does sometimes come as a blessed relief. I felt 
almost like the old bos’un, who, when he retired, 
hired a small boy for the sum of 6 d. a week to call 
him at 5.30 every morning. 

“Please, sir, the Commander wants you," the urchin 
was instructed to pipe. 

“Tell the Commander to go to Hades!" the bos’un 
was reputed to remark, turning over and going off to 
sleep again. 

The mutinous satisfaction of consigning an im- 
aginary executive officer to the nether regions was 
worth £1 6 s. a year to that bo’ sun. Possibly the money 
would have been better spent if he had sent it to the 
172 


The War Cloud 


173 


Fresh Air Fund for poor children; but I can quite 
understand his feelings. 

And at home I was no longer treated as a child. 
For instance, I helped myself to a second glass of 
my father’s “good old fruity” after dinner with no 
further protest than a slight lifting of my mother’s 
eyebrows. I wasn’t used to two glasses of port, it is 
true, more especially after claret. I had rarely in- 
dulged in port at all on board the Pericles. My wine 
bill simply wouldn’t stand it. But I thought it best to 
give the impression that I was a veteran sea-dog who 
knew a glass of good wine when he tasted it. So I 
rolled it round my tongue in a lordly way and ven- 
tured the opinion that it was a sound and aged wine. 
Whereat my father laughed, for he knew that I knew 
that I should have made precisely the same remark 
if it had been the grocer’s “Special Spanish ferrugin- 
ous” brand at is. 6 d. the bottle. How on earth was 
I to know the difference? 

I had a jolly good time. My father, whose handi- 
cap at golf was + 4, even cast aside his other ar- 
rangements and took me off in the car after breakfast 
to play eighteen holes and to have lunch at Worples- 
don. Which was very self-sacrificing of him, for I, 
with a handicap of a doubtful eighteen — my golf in 
those days was almost as erratic as my knowledge 
of port wine — completely spoilt his game. And in the 
afternoons I played tennis at home, where I met decent 
girls, wholesome, clean-looking girls, some of them 
pretty, who weren’t perambulating Navy Lists. They 
could not for the life of them tell you what pay Lieu- 


174 


The Sub 


tenant-Commander Reece of H.M.S. Mantelpiece re- 
ceived from a beneficent Admiralty for his labours, 
nor what prospects he had of supporting a wife. Some 
of the girls I had met in the naval ports were very 
well up in these matters. I expect they had an eye 
to business, for I always noticed that they usually 
congregated in the spot where the gold lace was thick- 
est. They weren’t all like this, of course. Only some 
of them. 

I didn’t take much interest in the newspapers while 
I was on leave, though I knew from sundry remarks 
of my father’s at breakfast on Sunday and Saturday 
that the disagreement between Austria and Serbia 
was becoming acute. 

“I hope it is not very serious,” my mother had said. 

“Oh no,” my father replied calmly. “It’ll all fizzle 
out. It’s merely a try on.” 

So we rested content with that, and even on the 
Tuesday, July 28th, we felt quite confident that noth- 
ing untoward was about to happen. But at about 6 
o’clock the same evening, when I was in the middle of 
tennis, I saw the telegraph boy come up the garden 
path and go to the front door, and a few minutes 
later my father came out with an orange envelope in 
his hand. 

“David !” he called across to me, just as I was serv- 
ing. “You’re recalled.” 

“Recalled!” I exclaimed, dropping my racquet in 
disgust and going across to him. “Whatever . . 

He thrust the telegram into my hand. There was 
no mistaking it. It was addressed to me, and was 


The War Cloud 


175 


brief, laconic, and very much to the point. “Leave 
CANCELLED. ReJOIN IMMEDIATELY. COMMANDING 

Officer. ‘Pericles.’ ” 

I read it aloud. 

“What does it mean?’’ my mother asked rather 
anxiously. 

“Seems as if things were getting serious,” I told 
her. “Perhaps it’s war !” 

“War!” said everybody at once. 

“Poof !” laughed my father, shaking his head. “It 
can’t be that. They’re merely taking reasonable pre- 
cautions.” 

“It’s put the stopper on my leave, anyhow,” said 
I indignantly. “And when the excitement’s all over 
I’ll bet my bottom dollar I shan’t get any more. What 
rotten luck!” 

It really was rather galling being dragged back 
at the end of three days when I had expected a full 
fortnight. 

“You can just catch the 6.39 if you go in and pack 
at once,” my father broke in, examining his little 
time-table. “You haven’t much time, so hurry up! 
I’ll order the car now.” 

So I said good-bye to everyone and the tennis party 
broke up, and less than forty minutes later I was 
in the London train. 

Both my parents came to the station to see me off, 
and when the guard waved his flag and I leant out of 
the carriage, my mother put her arms round my neck 
and kissed me. Her eyes, I noticed, were very misty. 

“Buck up, mother,” said I cheerily, patting her on 


176 


The Sub 


the shoulder. “I expect I shall be back in a day or 
two.” 

She shook her head sadly. ‘‘Take care of yourself, 
my son, and God bless you,” she murmured softly. 
“Don’t forget to write, and let me know if there is 
anything you want.” 

The train jolted and moved forward. She released 
me. 

“Good-bye, David. Good luck !” said my father. 

“Good-bye, my son. Take care of yourself,” from 
my mother. 

“Good-bye, good-bye!” from me. 

I leant out of the window and waved till a curve 
in the line took them out of sight, and then sat down 
and tried to analyse my feelings. They were peculiar, 
for though I was distinctly annoyed at the curtail- 
ment of my leave, even the remote prospect of war 
had rather an exhilarating effect. I felt somehow as 
if I wanted to wave my hat and to sing “God Save 
the King.” A silly sort of idea, perhaps, but that is 
how it took me. 

So thus, with my parents’ blessing, a £5 note in my 
pocket from my father, and a packet of chicken sand- 
wiches from my friend the cook to sustain me on the 
journey, I set forth, without really being aware of it, 
to take part in the greatest war the world has ever 
known. 

11 

Waterloo station when I arrived there was a seeth- 
ing mob of bluejackets who had been recalled from 


The War Cloud 


177 


leave to rejoin ships at Portsmouth, Weymouth, and 
Devonport. Many of them had brought their female 
belongings with them to see them off, also sundry 
musical instruments, and what with the strident saluta- 
tions of the ladies, the frenzied efforts of concertinas 
and penny whistles, and the singing and shouting of 
the men themselves, a few of whom had been cele- 
brating not wisely but too well, the place was an abso- 
lute babel in which station-master, inspectors, ticket- 
collectors, and porters alike were powerless to keep 
order. But they were a very good-tempered crowd, 
nevertheless. 

I had some time to spare, and stood there awhile 
watching the scene. Never before or since have I seen 
such a spectacle. I saw a ticket-collector standing 
at the gate giving access to the Portsmouth platform 
and vainly endeavouring to regulate the crowd surging 
through. 

“ ’Ave your tickets ready, please !” he was bellow- 
ing at the pitch of his voice. “One at a time, please ! 
Can't you stop shovin’ behind there !” 

He might as well have been talking to the man 
in the moon for all the notice they took of him, when 
suddenly, unobserved by the official, a sailor clambered 
over the gate, opened it from the inside, and the next 
instant a throng of bluejackets and women poured 
through in a human avalanche, carrying the ticket- 
collector with them. He didn’t punch many tickets 
that evening, for when next I saw him he was half- 
way down the platform minus his cap. 

First, second, and third-class carriages, guards’ 


i 7 8 


The Sub 


vans and luggage vans, of the trains bound to the 
naval ports were besieged by a noisy mob and were 
gradually packed to repletion. Train after train 
steamed out with musical honours, and a chorus of 
cheers, howls, and screeches from those left behind 
and those on board. 

Fat sailors, thin sailors, tall sailors, short sailors, 
all sorts and conditions of sailors, all belonging to His 
Majesty’s Navy, pushed, shoved, and jostled each 
other. Sailors wearing feminine headgear, ladies 
wearing sailors’ caps, couples arm in arm, all shout- 
ing and singing at the top of their lusty voices. Never 
in my life have I seen such a pandemonium. 

In front of the bookstall a jovial gentleman with 
a very red face, and without efficient control of his 
legs, was solemnly endeavouring to dance the High- 
land fling with a young lady from Whitechapel amidst 
the loud applause of the onlookers. An obliging ship- 
mate with an accordion provided the music. The girl, 
her skirts well lifted, footed it right lustily, until her 
partner, endeavouring to imitate her, subsided to the 
ground with a thud and remained firmly seated. His 
friends hastened to help him; but he waved them 
aside. Dancing was so dangerous, he explained, that 
he thought it wise to assume an attitude whence he 
could fall no further. 

I saw an enormously fat A.B. tearing along a plat- 
form to catch his train with an equally fat woman, 
probably his wife, in tow astern of him. She clutched 
two bottles of beer and a paper bag containing susten- 
ance for her lord and master’s journey, and the pair 


The War Cloud 


179 


were well cheered by an appreciative audience with 
howls of “Go it, Ginger! Get a move on, Skinny 
Lizzie !” 

They reached the last carriage of an already mov- 
ing train. The sailor made a flying leap, and, with 
legs waving in the air, was unceremoniously hauled 
in through the window by his friends, while his wife, 
standing on the footboard, passed his provender in 
after him. Then a purple face appeared from the 
window and kissed the lady on both cheeks, after 
which she dropped neatly to the platform, produced a 
handkerchief, and alternately waved it and mopped 
her streaming face until the train was out of sight. 

There was no “Tipperary” in those days — no “We 
are the boys of the bulldog breed,” or anything of that 
kind. Merely a good-tempered, hilarious crowd sing- 
ing comic songs such as one might have seen at a 
popular Cup Tie at the Crystal Palace. 

I noticed many men wearing “Royal Fleet Re- 
serve” cap-ribbons. They were the members of the 
“Immediate reserve,” men who had served their time 
in the Navy, had retired to civil life, but were avail- 
able for immediate recall in the event of any emer- 
gency on receipt of a telegram and without the for- 
mality of the general Royal Proclamation calling out 
all the naval reserves. They had received their orders 
that very afternoon, and now, throwing their civil 
employment to the winds, leaving their wives and 
families behind them, they were pouring in from all 
parts of the country to report themselves at the dif- 
ferent naval depots before being drafted to ships. 


i8o 


The Sub 


Without realising it, they, like myself, were embark- 
ing on the greatest adventure they had ever known. 

Many of the men I saw that night can never have 
seen their homes and relations again. Some must 
have lost their lives in the North Sea, the Dardanelles, 
and various unmentioned little naval encounters in 
the uttermost parts of the world, others by mine, 
torpedo, and other perils of war ; but as I stood there 
and watched them I think I was prouder of belonging 
to the Navy than I had ever been before. Like me, 
the men had all been recalled from leave, but judging 
from the scraps of conversation I overheard nobody 
grumbled. Moreover, considering the circumstances, 
one could have forgiven a certain amount of drunken- 
ness, but there were very few signs of it. There 
was far more wild enthusiasm, and, as anybody who 
knows him will tell you, an enthusiastic bluejacket 
with his friends is the noisiest creature on this earth. 
The one aim and object of every man in that huge 
mob seemed to be to get back to his ship as soon as 
possible, and for this, perhaps, the rather disquieting 
news in the evening papers may have been indirectly 
responsible. 

At Victoria, when I arrived there with my luggage, 
the scene was much the same, except that there were 
fewer men. Even so, though I arrived early, I had 
the greatest difficulty in obtaining a seat in a first-class 
carriage in the Chatham train, and then only by the 
courtesy of several other officers who squashed up 
and made room for me. 

And when I arrived at my destination there was no 


The War Cloud 


181 


conveyance of any kind. Chatham, the last place 
that the Almighty ever made, is always like that, and 
I had to wait the best part of an hour before get- 
ting an ancient “growler,”' an incoherent Jehu rather 
the worse for wear, and a horse whose ribs seemed to 
be wearing rapidly through his skin, to take me to the 
dockyard. So it was not until past 10.30 that I finally 
arrived on board the Pericles and made my way to 
the Commander’s cabin. My reception was not ex- 
actly cordial. 

“Who the deuce’s that?” came his voice as I 
knocked. “Sentry ! Sentry ! !” in a bellow, “I thought 
I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed !” 

The sentry evinced no emotion. He wafc out of 
earshot. 

“It’s me, sir. Munro,” I said. 

“Well, come in! Come in! Don’t stand there 
howling at me from outside !” 

There was little doubt as to who had done the howl- 
ing, so I entered in some trepidation, to find the Com- 
mander seated at- his writing-table with the Lieu- 
tenant-Commander (G). “Guns” 1 looked at me 
with a grin as I went in, and evidently they were busy 
reorganising the men’s stations, for the Commander 
was rumbling away sotto-voce and running his fingers 
through his hair. “Guns” himself seemed rather 
heated about the face, and the table was littered with 
watch bills, station bills, typewritten orders, and scrib- 
bled-over sheets of paper. The air, moreover, was 
blue with tobacco smoke, ash was scattered all over 
1 “Gims,” a wardroom nickname for the gunnery officer. 


The Sub 


182 

the carpet, while the waste-paper basket was full of 
the Commander’s pipes. 

‘‘The Bloke” 1 was an inveterate smoker. I never 
remember seeing him off duty without a “gum- 
bucket,” as he called it, in his mouth, and when in his 
cabin he never by any chance smoked the same pipe 
twice running. He possessed about thirty of them all 
told, and to save himself the trouble of knocking them 
out when finished, invariably hurled them into the 
waste-paper basket or on to the floor, whence they 
were eventually retrieved by his long-suffering ma- 
rine servant. I now saw that there were about ten 
of them in their usual receptacle, so realised that 
the Commander and his companion had been hard at it 
for some time. 

“Blow this fellow !” the Commander growled, glar- 
ing at the gunnery officer, who merely smiled. “I 
don’t know why you’re so anxious to change all these 
men round at the last moment. I seem to have the 
nine point two guns’ crews at the twelve pounders and 
vice versa. And why the devil the surname of Smith 
was ever invented I’m sure I don’t know ! This ship’s 
simply plastered with Smiths; they pursue me morn- 
ing, noon, and night. . . . Oh Lor ! 

“Well,” he added, leaning back in his chair, stretch- 
ing himself, and looking at me with his usual whimsi- 
cal expression. “Don’t you ever go in for gunnery. 
Gunnery officers are the bane of any decent-minded 
Commander’s existence, aren’t they, Guns?” 

1 “The Bloke,” a lower-deck nickname for the Commander. 


The War Cloud 


183 


“ Weren’t you one yourself, sir?” queried our ex- 
pert, gazing innocently at the ceiling. 

The Commander snorted. “Of course I was,” he 
muttered. “But thank the Lord I wasn’t one of your 
new-fangled products. So you’ve come back, eh?” he 
snapped at me. 

“Yes, sir,” said I with a sweet smile, for I knew a 
jolly sight better than to take the Commander seri- 
ously. 

“And you’re leaving the ship to-morrow morning 
at seven o’clock, d’you know that?” 

“Leaving, sir!” I said, utterly flabbergasted. 
“Whatever for?” 

“They’re sending you to a destroyer. Wire came 
from the Admiralty this afternoon telling us to nomi- 
nate one acting Sub with some sense in his head to 
relieve the Sub of a destroyer who’s been fool enough 
to go sick. We’ve told you off. D’you like the idea?” 

“Well, sir,” said I, blushing, for I knew the gruff- 
ness of his tone meant nothing, and I couldn’t help 
feeling rather pleased that he considered I had some 
sense in my head. “I hardly know. Of course . . .” 

“More fool you!” said the Commander, twinkling 
his eyes at me. “I’d give my soul to go to a destroyer 
if I knew anything about the job, and there’s going 
to be a war. You ought to be jolly grateful to me for 
giving you such a good character, you young ruf- 
fian.” 

“I am, sir.” 

“Humph! Don’t believe it! Let’s see,” searching 
for something among the papers on his table. “Yes, 


The Sub 


184 

here it is. You're going to the Lictor, one of the new 
‘L’ boats. You’ll have to be on board her sharp at 
seven o’clock to-morrow morning. She’s lying in the 
basin near the entrance locks, and sails for her base 
at noon. Savvy ?” 

“Yes, sir. But can’t I . . .” 

“No. You can’t !” he said brusquely, waving a pen- 
cil as if to brush me aside. “I’m in a beastly bad 
temper and far too busy to argue, so clear out ! If I’m 
approachable in the morning — which I very much 
doubt if the gunnery officer goes on bullying me — if 
I’m in a decent temper then, you can come and say 
good-bye to me. Meanwhile get out of my cabin, and 
tell that idiot of a sentry that if he allows anyone else 
in here I’ll have him flayed alive and fricasseed in 
burning oil. Good night!” He turned again to his 
work. 

I retired to the gunroom, where I found several of 
my messmates. 

“You’re a fine fellow,” were Nick’s first words. 
“What the deuce d’you mean by being appointed 
away?” 

“Ask me another, old boy,” said I. “I knew noth- 
ing of it until the Commander told me five minutes 
ago.” 

“Lucky dog!” growled Meryon. “It’s that one you 
got in seamanship that’s done it. That, and being the 
Commander’s blue-eyed boy.” 1 

“For goodness’ sake tell me what’s been going on,” 
^‘Blue-eyed boy,” i.e. favourite. 


The War Cloud 


185 


I said, smiting Meryon on the head. “What’s all the 
panic about?” 

“You may well ask,” Nichols answered. “This 
morning everything was perfectly peaceful and I went 
off to play golf with Shortie. Just as we were hav- 
ing lunch we were recalled by telephone, and when 
we got back the flap had started. I’ve been in an 
overall suit in the engine and boiler rooms ever since. 
Look at me if you don’t believe it!” 

I did look at him and did believe it, for his brown 
overalls. were covered in oil, while his face and hands 
were streaked with grime and perspiration. 

“I’ve spent the whole blessed afternoon and eve- 
ning crawling round the guts of the ship on my stom- 
ach,” he continued, waving his hands with a comical 
gesture of despair. “Nobody loves me at all. Every- 
body’s in a hell of a temper and everything’s in a hell 
of a mess, and the dockyard are doing their level best 
to have us ready for sea the day after to-morrow. 
They’ll do it, too, judging from the speed they’re slap- 
ping things together. Outside!” 

“Sir,” came the sleepy voice of the steward from 
the pantry. 

“Bring beer! One, two, three . . . eight glasses 
of beer, and a bottle of ginger ale for the assistant 
clerk!” 

“Why can’t I have beer too, please, Nichols?” 
queried the youthful accountant officer. 

“Beer’s not good for little boys, and I’m not going 
to give you a chance of writing home to your mother 
and telling her that I’m responsible for your down- 


i86 


The Sub 


fall. Beer’s been the ruination of many a sweet 
che-ild like you.” 

“But I’ve often drunk . . .” 

“Oh, sit on the little blighter’s head, someone,” said 
Nick, puffing at his pipe. 

Meryon did so, and there was peace. 

“So things have been humming, what?” I asked. 

“Lord, yes! All leave’s been cancelled, and there’s 
a buzz that the reserves have been called out. Lord ! 
I only hope we’re ready for sea in time!” 

The drinks arrived. 

“Well, here’s luck to you, David,” said Nick, look- 
ing at me over the edge of his tumbler. “May your 
shadow never grow less.” 

“Here’s luck to the What’s-her-name,” chimed in 
Meryon and the others, holding their glasses towards 
me. “What about old David making a farewell 
speech ?” 

Nichols grunted and went across to the piano, and 
before I could stop him was playing “Auld Lang 
Syne.” 

“Speech! Silence, gentlemen!” they all roared, 
having bellowed twice through the chorus with much 
stamping on the deck. “Brother David will now 
oblige with a speech !” 

I was hoisted on to a settee, where I stood like a 
fool with a full tumbler in my hand. 

“I don’t in the least know what to say, you fellows,” 
I began awkwardly. “I’m jolly sorry to leave you, 
and all that sort of thing, and I only hope . . .” 

“Eleven o’clock, gennel’men, please, and the Com- 


The War Cloud 


187 


mander says there’s too much noise goin’ on in the 
gunroom,” interrupted ship’s corporal Stiggers, 
thrusting his head through the curtained doorway. 
“It’s time to lock up, sir, please!” 

“Have a glass of beer, corporal?” shouted Nick, 
anxious to delay the evil moment. 

“Can’t be done, sir. These lights oughter ’ave been 
out by ten o’clock, and the Commander’s been tellin’ 
me off 1 somethin’ crool. Can’t give you another min- 
ute, gennel’men. I’ll be ’ung, drawed, and quartered 
else !” 

We did not wish to see the worthy Stiggers so base- 
ly mutilated, so the farewell speech, to my great re- 
lief, was indefinitely postponed, but when I left the 
Pericles the next morning I honestly believe there 
were tears in my eyes. 

I knew I was very lucky to be going to a destroyer, 
particularly as it was practically an unheard-of thing 
for an Acting Sub to be appointed to one. I revelled 
in the idea of being in a more or less responsible posi- 
tion in a small ship instead of a very junior officer 
in a large one, but still I could not help feeling a pang 
of regret at leaving the dear old Pericles. 

I had served in her for over two and a half years 
and had come to love her as a home. Her officers, 
too, were the whitest set of fellows who ever stepped, 
and so were the men. I had many friends among 
them. 

Indeed, while I was packing up in the morning two 
1 Telling me off, i.e. scolding. 


1 88 


The Sub 


A.B.'s of my division sought me out in the gunroom 
flat. 

“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” said the spokesman 
awkwardly. “But we heard 'as 'ow you was goin' to 
a deestroyer ?” 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Well, sir. We thought 'as 'ow you might take 
me and my chum along o’ you. We've got on all 
right together since we’ve been in this ship, sir, and 
seein’ 'as 'ow we're both badgemen with good rec- 
ords we thought you might arrange it. I’m a sea- 
man gunner, sir, and Jevons 'ere is an L.T.O.” 1 

They were both good men, but it was not in my 
power to grant their request, much as I should have 
liked to. And when I told them as much they both 
seemed rather disconsolate. 

“I expect you’ll go to destroyers soon enough,” I 
said to them. 

“We wants to go now, sir,” said Jevons. “You 
see, sir,” he added in a throaty and confidential whis- 
per, “we'd like to serve along o' an officer we knows, 
but we gets an extry tanner a day 'ard-lyers 2 in a 
deestroyer. And a tanner a day means a lot to mar- 
ried men with fam'blies, sir.” 

So the extra sixpence a day was the real reason, 
was it? Though even then I could not help feeling 

1 “L.T.O.,” i.e. heading torpedoman. 

* “Hard-lyers,” i.e. hard-lying money, extra money paid to 
men in torpedo craft for the increased discomfort and wear 
and tear of clothing. 


The War Cloud 


189 


rather complimented that they should want to come 
with me to my new ship. 

But it was impossible for me to arrange it, so I 
merely wrung their horny hands and wished them 
good-bye and good luck. It was all I could do. 




CHAPTER IX 


H.M.S. Lictor 

i 

S HORTLY before 7 o’clock the next morning, 
with my belongings on the jetty in a small hand- 
cart propelled by two bluejackets, I was report- 
ing myself on board my new ship. She was a fine- 
looking craft, one of the very latest destroyers, slim 
and narrow for her length, with two funnels and a 
high upstanding bow which promised to make her a 
good sea-boat in bad weather. Her speed, I had al- 
ready discovered, was somewhere in the neighbour- 
hood of 30 knots, and her displacement about 1,000 
tons. She was well armed, too, for she carried three 
4-inch guns and two pairs of torpedo tubes, and, 
painted black all over, seemed to my inexperienced 
eyes to be everything that a destroyer should be. 

“I’m Sub-Lieutenant Munro, sir, come to join the 
ship,” said I with a salute, going up to a Lieutenant, 
who, in a monkey jacket with the lace dropping off 
it, a white muffler, and a pair of gigantic sea-boots, 
was superintending some work on deck. 

He turned round and took stock of me for a mo- 
ment, wrinkling up his eyes and pushing his cap on 
190 


H.M.S. Lictor 


191 

the back of his head, and then smiled and extended 
a hand. 

“I’m Turley, the First Lieutenant of this junk,” 
he introduced himself. “I’m glad you’ve turned up, 
for since Horton went to hospital I’ve had to do every 
blessed thing.” 

“And is Horton coming back?” I asked. 

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t think so. He’s 
having his appendix cut out, poor devil. Rather hard 
luck just as a war’s coming on. You’re probably here 
for a full due 1 if you hit it off with the skipper. Ever 
met him, by the way?” 

“I don’t think so. What’s his name?” 

“Lennon,” he answered. “Lieutenant-Commander 
Lennon.” 

“Is he a good fellow?” I asked. 

“Good fellow!” Turley snorted. “I should think 
he jolly well was ! One of the very best provided you 
do your job. But come along and see him. He’ll 
be in bed or in his bath, I expect, but that won’t mat- 
ter. Quartermaster !” 

“Sir?” 

“Have Mr. Munro’s gear taken down to his cabin, 
and tell my servant I want my bath now. Come on, 
Sub!” 

I followed him aft until we came to a small cir- 
cular opening in the deck under a canvas canopy, 
through which orifice I heard someone below singing 
at the pitch of his voice. The noise was so unmusical 
that I could barely recognise the tune, but various 
1 For a full due, i.e. permanently. 


192 


The Sub 


indications led me to believe it was the hymn which 
starts “0 happy band of pilgrims.” 

“You needn’t be alarmed,” whispered No. 1 with 
a grin, noticing my surprise. “It’s not a revival meet- 
ing. It’s merely the skipper in his bath. He usually 
sings when he’s feeling bobbish.” 

He clattered noisily down a narrow steel ladder and 
knocked at a door. 

“Where such a light affliction, 

Shall win so great a prize/' 

chanted the voice with great feeling. 

“Hullo! Who’s there?” 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Turley. “The new 
Sub’s just joined.” 

“Good egg! What’s he look like?” 

“Oh, all right, sir,” came the guarded reply, for I 
was in earshot. 

“Right. Send him down and let’s have a look at 
him. Give us a chance to get a towel on, though, 
I’m in my bath. I say, Number One?” 

“Sir?” 

“Got any sticking plaster ? I’ve cut myself.” 

“No, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t.” 

“Blow ! I’ll have to do without it, then.” 

Turley came up grinning, and I went down, and 
entering the cabin found myself in the presence of a 
short, thick-set little man standing in a shallow bath 
of soapy water with nothing on but a towel. He had 
curly hair, a merry blue eye, and a humorous expres- 


H.M.S. Lictor 


193 


sion, while his face was covered in lather and stream- 
ing with blood from a bad scrape with a razor. 

“Come in!” he said affably. “Don’t be bashful, 
and excuse my rig. I’ve only just turned out. D’you 
ever use one of these beastly mowing machines, by 
the way?” shaking hands and proceeding to dab the 
gash on his cheek with a sponge. “They’re inven- 
tions of the devil! You’ve come from the Pericles, 
haven’t you ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ ’Um,” he muttered, putting his left hand on my 
shoulder and turning me to the light to examine my 
face. “Transom’s an old ship of mine, and told me 
about you. I’m glad you, haven’t got a pasty face,” 
he added inconsequently. “Pasty faces are the devil. 
People who have ’em are always so beastly seasick, 
what ?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” said I, noticing that his own face, 
or what I could see of it for blood and shaving soap, 
was tanned by sun and wind to a healthy mahogany. 

He laughed and relinquished his scrutiny. “Well, 
there isn’t much I can tell you now, but I daresay 
you’ll soon get into the swing of things. You’ll keep 
watch at sea, of course, and look out you keep the 
charts corrected up to date. It’s easy enough when.^ 
you get into the way of it. So long, I must get? 
dressed. See you at breakfast.” 

I retired, and the instant I left the cabin he burst 
into another hymn, inventing most of the words as he 
went on. He couldn’t sing for toffee. He shouted, 
and his bass notes literally shook the ship. 


194 


The Sub 


My cabin in the next flat was only separated from 
his by a thin steel bulkhead, and before I had been 
a week on board I discovered that it was a habit of 
his to sing in his bath and while he dressed, though 
why he always selected hymns whose words he didn’t 
know I never understood. Occasionally, also, he 
played on the penny whistle in his spare time, and 
later on, when the war came and we spent most of 
our days and nights at sea, I often found him sitting 
cross-legged on the settee in the charthouse like a fat 
little Buddha trying to coax “The Bluebells of Scot- 
land” out of his refractory instrument. 

“Perish the thing!” he used to growl, getting red- 
der and redder about the face. “I never seem to get 
any forrader, somehow. How does this bit go, Sub?” 
twittering away like a demented canary. 

“Sounds all right, sir,” I said with my tongue in 
my cheek, for really his penny whistling was as ghast- 
ly as his singing. 

“Don’t believe it ! However, I’ve practised enough 
for to-day, so I’ll just play through ‘God save the 
King’ and the ‘Marseillaise’ and then pack up !” 

Which he proceeded to do, while I, out of sheer 
politeness, had to stand there and listen. 

My cabin was quite a snug little cubby-hole, far 
and away larger than any cabin I should ever have 
had in a battleship or a cruiser, and having a place 
to call my own and somewhere to stow my gear was 
absolute bliss after living in a chest. The little place 
was painted in white enamel and had two scuttles in 
the ship’s side, beneath which came the bunk with 


H.M.S. Lictor 


195 


shallow sliding trays under it for clothes. The fur- 
niture was completed by a small mahogany chest of 
drawers; a tip-up washstand with a nickel basin; a 
looking-glass screwed to the bulkhead; a bookshelf; 
a rack for water-bottle, tooth tumbler, and other odds 
and ends ; a wooden flap to serve as a writing-table ; a 
folding chair; and a shallow bath hung to the ceiling 
overhead except when I happened to be using it. 

The Engineer-Lieutenant-Commander, Cornelius 
Prettyman, the 1st Lieutenant, and the Gunner (T), 
Mr. Samuel Cotter, lived in other cabins opening off 
the small flat outside. They soon received me to their 
respective bosoms, and before long we were always 
dodging in and out of each other's domiciles to bor- 
row stamps, matches, shaving soap, and other neces- 
saries of life. Promiscuous borrowing reached such 
a pitch, in fact, that I soon learnt to lock up xnj 
cigarettes. 

But there were several flies in the ointment, and 
the first of them was Robert Wilkes, Able Seaman, 
who acted as my valet-de-chambre. He was an un- 
couth fellow who had volunteered for the job of offi- 
cer’s servant, not through any knowledge of his duties, 
but because the ten shillings per month he received 
for “doing for” his unfortunate master might come 
in handy for beer, or to buy Mrs. Robert Wilkes a 
new Sunday bonnet. He “did” for me in more senses 
than one. It really was rather trying when, in an 
excess of zeal, I found him cleaning my sextant with 
bath-brick and emery paper, and more annoying still 
when he carefully removed the save-all from the bot- 


196 


The Sub 


tom of my washstand and substituted my uniform 
boots, whereupon I, tipping the basin, filled my boots 
and my cabin at the same time. Wilkes was so pain- 
fully zealous, however, that one couldn’t bear him 
any lasting grudge, and when, for instance, he burnt 
a hole in my best superfine cloth monkey jacket by 
leaving it to dry in close proximity to the red-hot gal- 
ley stove, he instantly volunteered to provide me with 
a new one. He knew very well I could never accept 
his offer. 

The next disadvantage was that, at sea, our cabins, 
since the side scuttles could never be opened, were dis- 
tinctly frowsty. The atmosphere, in fact, could gen- 
erally be carved with a knife. Of course we kept the 
hatch open, which admitted a small quantity of fresh 
air, but a large volume of water as well in anything 
approaching heavy weather. Sometimes I came down 
from the bridge to find a couple of feet of dirty 
slush swishing dismally to and fro across the flat and 
slopping into our cabins with the heavy rolling of the 
ship ; but even so a little air plus a great deal of water 
was better than no air at all. 

It certainly took me some time to get accustomed 
to sleeping in a state of partial asphyxiation, and 
I used to wake up with every symptom of what is 
generally known as a “fat head.” It doesn’t worry 
me now, though. I suppose I must be thoroughly 
kippered inside by this time. 

The Lictor, like all destroyers, had not the solidity 
of a big ship. She was the frailest sort of vessel im- 
aginable, and, as all superfluous weight was rigidly 


H.M.S. Lictor 


197 


cut down, her sides and decks were no thicker than 
ordinary fairly stout cardboard. When the engines 
were stopped, therefore, and in harbour at night the 
infernal orchestra of dynamo, pumps, and other what- 
nots in the engine-room had ceased their humming, 
buzzing, groaning, roaring, growling, screeching, chat- 
tering, hissing, grunting, barking, lowing, and any 
.other farmyard or zoological-garden sounds you can 
imagine, outside noises became magnified out of all 
proportion by the dead silence. Often and often with 
my head on the pillow in my bunk I could plainly hear 
the footsteps of somebody walking up and down the 
deck a hundred and fifty feet further forward. The 
coming and going of heavy footfalls immediately 
overhead sounded like the passing of an elephant bat- 
tery. 

So when I say that Mr. Cotter snored, and snored 
not like an ordinary human being, but with a series 
of grunts and blasts midway between the sounds 
caused by a tramp steamer bellowing on her steam 
whistle for a pilot, and the breathing of an asthmatic 
carthorse, you can perhaps imagine our feelings. His 
doleful trumpetings, like the skipper’s singing, caused 
the ship to vibrate and tremble, and the worst of it 
was that sometimes he would remain quiet for nights 
on end, then suddenly to break out into a perfect paean 
of triumph in the stilly hours of the morning when we 
were least expecting it. Naturally it woke us all up. 

“Mister Cotter!” would come a muffled remark 
from the Chief’s 1 cabin. 

1 “The Chief,” i. e. the senior engineer officer. 


198 


The Sub 


“Mister Cotter! !” from No. 1. 

“Mister Cotter! ! !” from me. 

“MISTER COTTER!” from all three of us to- 
gether. 

“Haw ! Honk ! Poouf ! Hurrump ! !” from the cul- 
prit. 

“MISTER COTTER! !” 

“Hullo! What's up now?” demanded the gunner, 
waking up at last. 

“For the Lord’s sake stop snoring!” in an irritable 
voice from the 1st Lieutenant. 

“Snoring, sir!” in a voice of the most righteous in- 
dignation. “No, sir. Not me. It’s the Sub-Looten- 
ant, sir. I’ve been lying awake listening to him!” 

Me? Shades of Ananias and Sapphira! 

Tut tut, Mr. Cotter! I am still ashamed of you. 

So after he had gone to sleep we always made a 
practice of creeping out of our cabins and gently 
closing his door. We could still hear his mournful 
brayings and explosions going on inside, but the sound 
was more or less deadened. 

We were a very happy little party, and in the ward- 
room, too, we were always cheery. It was the skip- 
per himself who was the bright particular spirit of 
the mess, for if he wasn’t showing the Chief how to 
crawl round the back of a chair without touching the 
deck with his feet, he was inventing a contrivance 
whereby all our gramophone discs could be played 
backwards. 

“Just think of what it’ll save Us!” he observed at 
breakfast one morning, when smitten by this bril- 


H.M.S. Lictor 


199 


liant brain-wave. “We’ll get four tunes out of every 
double-sided record!” 

I have no doubt that “Stop your tickling, Jock!” 
or “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” played backwards 
would have delighted his musical soul, but before he 
had completed the invention he was busy thinking out 
a scheme whereby the engine of our motor-boat might 
be utilised for supplying the necessary current to run 
the electric lights of the ship when the dynamo wasn’t 
working. He was a perfect genius for thinking of 
things. 

Some time later he developed a passion for a new 
game, or rather an old game, called “Pitch penny.” 
The rules were quite simple. You moved the ward- 
room table to one side to leave an open space, at the 
far end of which you placed a cork on end. Then, 
when you and your messmates had provided your- 
selves with all the pennies you possessed, you stood 
at the other end of the mess and pitched your coins 
at the cork with a peculiar back spin to make them 
fall flat. You pitched in turn, and at the end of each 
series the player whose penny was nearest the cork 
became the possessor of all the others. 

The skipper soon developed an unholy aptitude for 
the game. He won eight and ninepence in coppers the 
first night, and fifteen and fourpence the next. Then, 
as we had no more pennies left, he asked people on 
board from other destroyers and rooked them, until 
at last he had a good-sized bag full of coppers in his 
cabin. If he had gone on I believe there would soon 
have been a copper famine in the flotilla, but one eve- 


200 


The Sub 


ning I met him coming off in the boat with the empty 
bag. 

“Have you changed ’em all for silver, sir?” I asked. 

He grinned. “No. I went ashore with the idea of 
shoving ’em all in the lifeboat box, but to-day was the 
Belgian flag day, and I met a most prepossessing flap- 
per . . 

“And gave them all to her?” I gasped. 

“Only a hundred and seventy-two of them. The 
poor little dear could hardly carry her box by the 
time I’d finished, and I was nearly run in for cre- 
ating a disturbance. But she was jolly grateful. 
Pretty gal, too!” 

“And what did you do with the rest, sir?” 

“Let’s see,” he said, wrinkling up his forehead. “I 
put another hundred and seventeen in the collecting 
box outside the railings of the Red Cross hospital, and 
a hundred and thirty-eight, I believe, in the Mayor’s 
box for local war orphans. Quite a large crowd col- 
lected. They thought I was trying to burgle the bally 
thing!” He laughed at the recollection. 

“Any more, sir?” 

“Yes. I spent a penny on a box of matches to light 
my pipe with, and sent three and a penny in halfpenny 
stamps to the Chancellor of the Exchequer!” 

“Whatever for, sir?” I queried feebly. 

“Income tax, fathead ! Income tax at one and nine 
in the pound as near as I could work it out. Won’t 
the old man be pleased when he gets it?” 

“How did you send it?” 

“Quite simple. I just shoved the stamps into an 


H.M.S. Lictor 


201 


envelope with a chit of paper labelled ‘Conscience 
Money/ and addressed it to the old bloke, care of 
G.P.O., London. You see,” he added with a twinkle 
in his eye, “if he acknowledges it in the papers, as he 
ought to if he’s a proper gent, it’ll cost him at least 
five bob! By George! I haven’t had such an amus- 
ing afternoon for years !” 


ii 

It was no great surprise to us when, on the night 
of August 4th, we received a signal from the senior 
officer of our flotilla telling us that war had been de- 
clared against Germany. We had expected it, and 
when the momentous news of the outbreak reached us 
we were already at sea as a precautionary measure 
against certain eventualities. 

For some days beforehand we had been preparing 
the ship for war, so now, with the warheads on the 
torpedoes, ammunition at the guns, and all our super- 
fluous stores and peace-time fittings ruthlessly cast 
ashore, we were ready for anything which might turn 
up. And not we alone, but every other fighting unit 
in the Navy. 

In those early days we had no idea that the war 
was going to be anything but short and sharp. Most 
of us expected a big fleet action in the North Sea at 
the very outset of hostilities, and that the whole thing 
would be over by the following spring. So some de- 
stroyers, to be quite ready for going into action, even 
went so far as to land their boats, the chest of draw- 


20 2 


The Sub 


ers from the officers’ cabins, and the chairs, cupboards, 
and stove from the wardroom. I remember going on 
board one vessel, moreover, where they had even re- 
moved the wooden ladder leading from the ward- 
room to the deck, so that one had to make a precari- 
ous ascent or descent by means of a rickety pile of 
wooden biscuit cases placed on end. 

Even in harbour with no movement on the ship 
getting up or coming down required no mean acro- 
batic agility, but the perpetrators of the Eiffel tower- 
like arrangement seemed to have forgotten altogether 
that their food from the galley under the forecastle 
had to come along the upper deck and down that 
hatchway. However, they soon found out, for the 
first time the ship went to sea in moderate weather 
and started rolling a little, the steward slithered grace- 
fully below with the nauseous remains of two beef- 
steak puddings, not to speak of vegetables, broken 
crockery, an entree dish or two, and the biscuit cases 
themselves, on top of him. 

The wardroom got no hot lunch that day. They 
made their meal off cold bully beef out of a tin; but it 
taught them a lesson, and the next time they returned 
into harbour they took good care to retrieve the 
ladder. I noticed, too. that in most cases the chests 
of drawers, the chairs, and the stoves — particularly 
the stoves — all came drifting back in time. One can- 
not exist for very long on board a ship, even in war, 
without something to sit upon or to keep one’s clothes 
in, and as for undergoing a North Sea winter with- 
out artificial warmth of some kind, well, the idea is 


H.M.S. Lictor 


203 


absurd. We were young and foolish in those days. 
We know better now. 

What our feelings were when war actually came 
I cannot very well remember. I know we were all 
desperately anxious to have a slap at something Ger- 
man, but for some days we had regarded hostilities as 
inevitable and were more or less accustomed to the 
idea, so that when the announcement came there were 
few signs of spontaneous enthusiasm. It was only 
by the extra keenness and willingness on the part of 
officers and men that one could see what they really 
felt, though it was noticeable that they were much 
cheerier than usual, and that, on the infrequent occa- 
sions on which we had a spell in harbour, little groups 
used to collect on deck with a newspaper anxiously 
discussing the news, and giving their opinion of the 
Kaiser and “Ole Tirps” in no very measured terms. 
Tirpitz, of course, was responsible for the movements 
of the High Sea Fleet, and the great question which 
was ever in our hearts was whether or not that much 
talked about collection of vessels would come to sea 
and have it out. 

The skipper, whose nerves seemed to be made of 
cast steel, was affability itself, and went about with 
a broad smile on his face and a cheery word for every- 
one. I shall never forget his remark when war was 
declared. 

“Thank heaven !” he said fervently. “Now I shall 
be able to wear out all my old clothes!” 

He also started to grow a beard, which did noth- 
ing to improve his personal appearance, but his one 


204 


The Sub 


reiterated regret was that he had no time in which 
to learn the Serbian National Anthem. Not that it 
really mattered, for nobody on board knew what the 
Serbian National Anthem was, and not one of us 
could have read the music even if we had had the 
score. But the “Marseillaise” he knew, and the Rus- 
sian hymn he knew, or said he knew, so he thought 
it rather hard luck on the Serbs that he could not pay 
them the same compliment. He seemed rather put 
out about it. It did not worry us in the least. ’Tis 
an ill wind . . . 

The Lictor did not have the happy fortune to be 
present at the first naval engagement of the war on 
August 5th, when the German minelayer Konigin 
Luise was overhauled and sunk by the Amphion and 
some of our destroyers whilst in the very act of laying 
her mines. We had our first real taste of war the 
next day, when, at 6.30 in the morning, the Amphion 
was blown up and sunk by one of the very mines laid 
by her victim of the day before. 

I was keeping the morning watch at the time, and 
the skipper was on the bridge with me, giving me some 
hints as to how to keep station in close formation. 
The Amphion , the light-cruiser which carried our 
Captain (D), 1 was some little distance ahead, and 
we were all steaming along quite peacefully, expecting 
to get back to our base in a few hours. Then, with- 
out the least warning, the awful thing happened. 

Suddenly a great spurt of greyish-white water leapt 

'Captain (D), i.e. the Captain in command of a destroyer 
flotilla. 


H.M.S. Lictor 


205 


into the air by the Amphioris bows. She seemed to 
stop in her stride, and an awful sheet of bright green- 
ish-golden flame danced and flickered over her fore 
part, almost obscuring it from view. Next the thud- 
ding, booming roar of a heavy explosion, the shock of 
which, reverberating through and across the water, 
seemed literally to compress the air and caused our 
ship to tremble as if we had struck something heavy 
far below the waterline. 

For a moment we both gazed at the spectacle spell- 
bound, for I, at any rate, had no idea what it meant. 

“Great Scott !” muttered the Captain at last, leap- 
ing at the engine-room telegraph to reduce the speed. 
“She’s up on a mine! Starboard! Hard-a-star- 
board, quartermaster !” 

Every soul in the ship came bundling on deck to 
see what had happened, and when the Lictor had 
slowed slightly to port we could see that the Amphion 
was in a bad way. Her fore part, due no doubt to 
the ignition and explosion of some of the contents of 
one of the foremost magazines, was blazing furiously, 
and as she was still moving slowly ahead the flames, 
fanned by the breeze, were licking all round the bridge 
and foremost funnel. But the fire was now an omi- 
nous orange-red, which showed that the woodwork 
was burning. She was also settling down by the head, 
and the bow portion of the ship, which seemed to be 
detached from the rest of the hull, sloped down at an 
unnatural angle into the water. 

“Her back’s broken!” murmured the skipper. 
“Poor chaps! I wonder what men they’ve lost?” 


206 


The Sub 


We could see men in the after portion of the ship 
turning out the boats under the orders of their of- 
ficers, but forward there were no signs of life at all. 
Indeed, it seemed impossible that anyone in that part 
of the ship could possibly have survived that first 
stunning explosion and the raging inferno of flame 
which followed it. 

We destroyers, meanwhile, turning out our boats 
with all possible speed, approached the scene to give 
what help we could. Some of us, the Lictor included, 
lowered our whalers and sent them across, while one 
destroyer, approaching the stricken vessel's stern, 
made preparations for taking her in tow. 

It must have been about now that we noticed some 
of the Amphioris survivors entering the still blazing 
forecastle and returning with shipmates who had been 
injured by the explosion. 

“Good work !” said the skipper, watching a pathetic 
line of injured and mutilated men hobbling slowly aft 
to a place of comparative safety with their arms round 
the necks of their friends. Some, too sorely stricken 
even to hobble, had to be carried. 

It is possible that these gallant fellows who went 
to the rescue of their shipmates were merely obeying 
orders. Perhaps they did not understand what fright- 
ful risks they were running. But we did, and I held 
my breath as I watched them, for at any moment a 
fresh explosion might have hurled them to eternity. 
It was a heartrending business, for though we were 
so close we could do so little to help. 

Then orders were apparently given for the boats 


H.M.S. Lictor 


20 7 


to be lowered and the wounded to be placed in them. 
This was done without the least signs of undue haste 
or confusion, the uninjured passing the injured down, 
and then falling in on deck and waiting for further 
orders. They went about their work exactly as if they 
were carrying out a practice evolution, and it made me 
proud to watch them. 

The Amphion was sinking fast. Within about 
twelve minutes of the first explosion the bows were 
nearly under water, while the stem, due to the flood- 
ing of the compartments forward, was slowly lifting 
in the air. Still her commanding officer would not 
give up all hope of saving his ship, and still men re- 
mained fallen in on deck waiting for orders. 

But it was hopeless. In another five minutes the 
ship was settling rapidly, and then it was that final 
orders were given for her to be abandoned. The men 
clambered down into the boats, their officers followed, 
the Captain, who had been hurled from the bridge and 
momentarily stunned by the explosion, being the last 
to go. 

I saw him, a solitary figure, hatless and with his 
coat torn to ribbons, standing on deck waiting to leave. 
He lingered for a moment, turning half round as if to 
say good-bye to the ship he loved so well, and then, 
with a shrug of his shoulders, climbed slowly down 
the ship’s side into the waiting boat. I could imagine 
his feelings. 

The ship was just abandoned in time, for within a 
few minutes of the last boat leaving her side there 


208 


The Sub 


came the dull crash of another explosion. Whether or 
not it was caused by a mine, or by the fire reaching a 
magazine, I cannot say, but once more there came a 
sheet of livid flame, followed this time by a billowing 
cloud of greasy, dun-coloured smoke, while masses of 
riven debris hurtled skywards to come raining down in 
the sea all round us. 

The cloud of vapour hung there for some time, 
dense and impalpable, and when at last it drifted away 
on the gentle breeze the bows of the ill-fated ship were 
no longer visible. Gradually, very gradually, the stern, 
rearing itself in the air until we could see the pro- 
pellers and rudder, sank lower and lower, until at 
last, within five and thirty minutes of striking the first 
mine, the Amphion disappeared for ever. 

She went down quietly. There was no great vortex 
or swirling of the waters, merely a few big air bub- 
bles breaking on the surface, a discoloured, oil-strewn 
area of sea covered with scattered flotsam, and a thin 
haze of steam and smoke hanging in the air over the 
spot where she had vanished. 

“Poor old Amphion !” murmured the skipper husk- 
ily. The sight of the vessel sinking had damped even 
his buoyant spirits. 

One officer and over ioo men had gone to their last 
long rest with their ship. Sixteen officers and 135 
men were rescued, but many of these were badly burnt 
and others were suffering from shock. 

We returned to our base with the survivors, sadder 
but wiser men. We had seen over a hundred of our 


H.M.S. Lictor 


209 


flotilla-mates, ordinary human beings like ourselves, 
blasted to death in the twinkling of an eye. It gave 
us furiously to think. It taught us to realise that war, 
our legitimate trade, was no light-hearted picnic. 


CHAPTER X 


A Certain Liveliness 

i 

I T was about a fortnight after the loss of the 
Amphion that we were mixed up in what the Ad- 
miralty official communique was pleased to refer 
to as “a certain liveliness” in the southern portion of 
the North Sea. The phrase rather tickled our fancy 
when we read it in the newspapers the day after- 
wards. We rather wished that the gentleman who 
wrote the announcement for the press had been with 
us while his “liveliness” was yet in progress, for to 
me personally it was far too ticklish a business to be 
really amusing, and I don’t in the least mind admit- 
ting it. After all, nobody likes being shot at, and 
it was the first time in my life I had ever been under 
fire. 

It so happened that our flotilla was patrolling a cer- 
tain section of sea in which it was expected that the 
enemy might appear. It does not matter exactly 
whereabouts it was, but we — the destroyers, that is — 
were employed on what somebody in authority called 
an “observation patrol,” and were spread out in a 
long line abreast the better to cover the area. We 
were steaming to and fro at 15 knots, and our in- 
210 


A Certain Liveliness 


21 1 


structions were very simple. We were there pri- 
marily to keep a look-out, though if we sighted hos- 
tile destroyers, or anything weaker than ourselves, 
we were at liberty to concentrate and to attack. If, on 
the other hand, we tumbled across a light cruiser or 
anything larger, we were to cut and run for it, while 
reporting the enemy's movements by wireless. 

It was one of those rare North Sea days with a 
grilling sun, a hard blue sky, and a flat, oily calm sea. 
What little breeze there was came in fitful puffs from 
the southeastward, and since the early morning the 
heat had caused a slight mist or haze which hung 
over the horizor and narrowed our range of vision to 
about five miles. 

I had kept the forenoon watch on the bridge, and 
except for our next-door neighbours three miles to 
port and starboard, respectively, and a Dutch trawler 
or two, nothing had hove in sight to relieve the mo- 
notony of our vigil. We had, of course, been inter- 
cepting the usual undecipherable Telefunken wireless 
messages made by the enemy’s ships and shore sta- 
tions, but as this was of daily occurrence, and the sig- 
nals did not seem unduly strong, thereby telling us of 
the close proximity of the sender, we attached no par- 
ticular importance to them. 

It was a wearisome business altogether, and the 
skipper and* I had spent the greater part of the morn- 
ing in trying to keep cool, and in sending rude mes- 
sages to the cook or. account of the ghastly whiffs of 
boiling cabbage emanating from the galley under- 
neath the charthouse. We strafed the cabbage odour 


212 


The Sub 


pretty successfully, but as it was almost immediately 
succeeded by the capsizing of a frying pan and the 
consequent abominable effluvia of burning fat, we 
were very little better off. 

At half-past twelve I was relieved and went below 
to lunch, after which I retired to my cabin, clambered 
into my bunk, and promptly went off to sleep with a 
book in my hand and a pipe in my mouth. The day 
was so piping hot, moreover, and the sea so calm that 
I had foolishly opened both the scuttles over my bunk. 

It was soon after two o'clock, as I lay peacefully 
slumbering in my shirt sleeves, that I was rudely 
awakened by a deluge of water pouring in upon me, 
due to the helm being suddenly put hard over to star- 
board and the ship heeling over. I slammed the scut- 
tles to at once and screwed them home, though not be- 
fore I and my bedding were both well soaked. I was 
still contemplating the mournful necessity of chang- 
ing every stitch of clothing, however, when I noticed 
from the throbbing of the propellers that the ship 
had increased speed. I sat there for a moment with 
my feet dangling over the edge of my bunk wonder- 
ing vaguely what had happened, when suddenly there 
came the trampling of feet overhead as some men 
rushed aft. I pricked up my ears, for they seemed 
to be in an unusual hurry, when there came a howl 
from Mr. Cotter, who had relieved me on watch, from 
the top of the hatch leading to our flat. 

“Down below there !” he bellowed throatily. 
“Enemy in sight ! Action stations 1” 

I jumped out of my bunk on the instant, crammed 


A Certain Liveliness 


213 


my feet into a pair of bedroom slippers, flung on my 
monkey-jacket and a pair of glasses round my neck, 
and was out of my cabin and up the ladder in about 
five seconds. Even as I reached the deck I heard over- 
head a shrill, piercing “Whe-e-e-w! . . . Whe-e-e-e-w! 
. . . WH-E-E-E-W!” li^e an express train tearing 
through a station. Almost immediately afterwards 
came several sounds which I can only describe as liquid 
thuds, and simultaneously, to my intense surprise, four 
or five dazzling white plumes of spray leapt out of the 
sea barely two hundred yards in front of my very 
eyes. 

Next the “Boom . . . boomp! . . . Boomp, Boomp, 
Boomp!” of guns fired in an irregular salvo, and I 
must confess that at that moment I suddenly felt as if 
my inside were made of jelly. 

I summoned up the courage to look round to star- 
board, where, about 9,000 yards distant, and silhouet- 
ted against the mist on the horizon beyond, I saw a 
lean-looking light cruiser with black smoke rolling 
from her four funnels and a great white bow wave 
piled up round her stem. She was travelling at full 
speed, and there was not much doubt as to her na- 
tionality. Her light grey colouring and build told me 
at once she was German, and even as I watched I saw 
the orange sparkle of five or six gun flashes break 
out from her side as she fired another salvo. 

Once more that terrifying, whining shriek as the 
projectiles drove towards us, and then another cluster 
of spray fountains followed at once by the muffled, 
metallic-sounding crash of explosions in the water, 


214 


The Sub 


and an infernal humming, buzzing, and droning as 
splinters came hurtling through the air. Then again 
the more distant rumble of the reports. 

Nobody on board was hit, but this time the shell, 
instead of passing overhead, had exploded in the sea 
about a hundred yards short. The next salvo would 
probably hit unless we altered course to avoid it. 

How long I stood there before rushing along the 
upper deck to get to my station on the bridge I haven’t 
a notion. Very likely it was no more than six or seven 
seconds, but as I made my way forward the noise was 
positively deafening. It was an ear-splitting medley 
in which the roaring of our stokehold fans as we in- 
creased speed, and the humming of our turbines, pre- 
dominated, but above these sounds came the intermit- 
tent rumble and thunder of the hostile guns, that awe- 
inspiring crescendo as the shell came driving towards 
us, and the shattering roar of their explosion as they 
burst. 

My impressions of what happened are very con- 
fused, though I fully expected the ship to be hit be- 
fore I had even time to get forward. But we were 
turning and twisting as we went, and out of the cor- 
ner of my eye I caught a fleeting glimpse of the third 
salvo falling into the sea. It was still short, thank 
heaven ! 

I eventually arrived on the bridge perfectly breath- 
less, to find the skipper smoking a pipe, giving an 
occasional order to the coxswain at the wheel, and 
gazing now and then through his binoculars at our 
formidable antagonist. He told me afterwards that 


A Certain Liveliness 


215 


he also had felt like a blancmange at this time, and 
that the pipe in his mouth was “mere eyewash” to 
steady his nerves; but he certainly looked quite cool, 
and his example made me feel much better. 

“Port fifteen!” he ordered, as the cruiser fired 
again. “Port, man! Port!” as the coxswain, not 
hearing what he said, looked up enquiringly. “For 
goodness’ sake don’t get the scatters, Bewles! I’m 
trying to dodge her salvoes!” 

The coxswain, with perspiration oozing from every 
pore, wiped his face with a grimy hand and nodded. 

And dodge the salvoes we did, for the next bouquet 
of shell fell into the sea in the very spot where we 
should have been if we had not altered course. 

Before very long we were stern on to the cruiser, 
who, turning after us, came pounding along in our 
wake. We obviously had the legs of her, for she 
was still at a distance of about 8,000 yards. But four 
sea miles is not a very long range for a naval gun, 
even a German 4*1, and flash after flash darted out 
from her forecastle as she fired those of her weapons 
which would bear. 

The Lictor, steaming at nearly 30 knots to her 25 or 
so, must have presented a very diffcult target, and 
as luck would have it not one of her projectiles ac- 
tually hit us. Nevertheless the shooting was quite ac- 
curate enough to be extremely unpleasant, for shell 
after shell pitched to the right, to the left, or astern, 
and so close that time after time the spray they flung 
up actually fell on to our decks and drenched some 
of our men to the skin. 


2 16 


The Sub 


“Shall we open fire with the after gun, sir?” I 
asked the Captain, who, with his mouth to a voice- 
pipe, was busy dictating a message to the wireless of- 
fice below. 

“Eh, what's that?” he enquired. 

I repeated my query. 

“She's nearly out of range,” he said rather doubt- 
fully, measuring the distance by eye. “However, tell 
’em they can fire a round or two if they like. It’ll 
steady the men. They’re not to waste ammunition, 
though !” 

I joyfully passed the necessary orders through, 
and a moment later the ship gave a little shiver as 
the after 4 inch, with her muzzle cocked well up in 
the air, went off with a crash and a sheet of flame. 
It was the first shot we had ever fired in anger, but 
whereabouts the projectile went I never saw. 

The range now began to lengthen out as our su- 
perior speed told, but still the enemy continued to fire 
an occasional round or two in our direction, though 
her shooting became more and more erratic as time 
went on. Two of our other destroyers, meanwhile, 
one on our starboard quarter and the other on our 
port beam, and both steaming at full speed on much 
the same course as ourselves, were also in action at 
very long range, for I could see the flashes of their 
guns as they fired, and the splashes of their projectiles 
falling some distance short of the German. The lat- 
ter, also, was firing at them, though her shell, too, 
were pitching wide of their mark. 

From our movements and the wireless signal I 


A Certain Liveliness 


217 


judged that the skipper was trying to lead the enemy 
to the westward in the hope of bringing her into ac- 
tion with one of our light-cruisers which lay in that 
direction, and presently, when the firing at us had 
ceased and he eased the revolutions a little to keep our 
pursuer well in view, I quite understood what was 
happening. 

“You needn’t be alarm ed,” he grinned, guessing my 
thoughts. “We’ve got the legs of her, and the perish- 
in’ old rattle-trap doesn’t seem to be able to hit us, 
anyhow. If only we can get her to go on chasing us 
we may run into the Dauntless. She’ll give her toko! 
Keep a good look-out for her ahead, signalman !” 

But he spoke too soon, for a minute or two later 
I saw him glancing dubiously astern and then at the 
water alongside. 

“Singe my wig and whiskers!” he suddenly burst 
out. “What revolutions 1 have you got on that tele- 
graph, Munro?” 

“Five-seventy, sir,” I told him. “About 26 knots.” 

“Quite sure?” 

“Positive, sir.” 

“I’ll be jiggered if we’re going that!” he exclaimed. 
“Messenger! Go down to the engine-room and ask 

x The speed of a man-of-war is adjusted by the number of 
revolutions per minute of the engines or turbines. A table on 
the bridge gives the revolutions for each knot of speed, the 
requisite number being transmitted to the engine-room by 
means of a telegraph in which a pointer is made to travel 
round a graduated dial. Speed for speed, the shaft of a 
turbine revolves far faster than that of an ordinary recipro- 
cating engine. 


2 18 


The Sub 


’em if there’s anything the matter. Tell ’em we’re 
not going anything like the proper speed ! Hurry !” 

The man left on his errand, while the skipper, cast- 
ing an occasional anxious look astern, started to walk 
up and down the narrow bridge. I could see from his 
manner that he was rather perturbed. 

“Well?” he asked impatiently, when the man came 
back. 

“I saw the engineer orficer, sir, and ’e says ’as ’ow 
one of the oil-fuel feedin’ pipes in number two stoke- 
’old ’as got choked. ’E can’t go no more’n twenty- 
two or twenty-three knots until . . 

“Christians awake!” ejaculated the Captain. “Can’t 
go more than twenty-three?” 

“No, sir. But ’e’s dishin’ it up as quick as ’e can, 
sir, but don’t know how long it’ll take !” 

The skipper whistled uneasily and looked astern 
again, where I saw that our pursuer, from about io,- 
ooo yards, had now closed in to 9,000 and still seemed 
to be overhauling us hand over fist. 

“Go down and tell Mr. Prettyman that I am quite 
confident he’ll do all he can,” he said to the messen- 
ger. “But tell him there’s a fat beast of a German 
astern of us who’ll catch us if we don’t watch it!” 

The bluejacket ran down the ladder with rather a 
scared expression. 

“If that doesn’t make ’em hurry up I don’t know 
what will !” he added to me with a short laugh. “Lord 
love a duck! If that fellow there gets within 6,000 
yards he’ll hammer us to blazes !” 

“She’s already started, sir,” said I, and I once more 


A Certain Liveliness 


219 


saw the tell-tale orange flashes as she fired in our di- 
rection. 

“Boom . . . Burrrp . . . Boomp !” went her guns. 
“Burrrp . . . Boomp . . . BOOM!” 

They were shooting fast, and again there came that 
nerve-racking screeching in the air as shell came fly- 
ing towards us. Column after column of water spouted 
out of the sea astern. They seemed alarmingly close. 

“Oh, Christmas! This’ll never do!” Lennon mut- 
tered. “Hard-a-port, Bewles! Steady her on north 
fifteen west. Sub, pass down a range and deflection 
to the guns, and open fire as soon as you can ! She’s 
coming up fast, and if we have the luck to hit her we 
may shake her off. I’m going to dodge her salvoes as 
best I can.” 

We steadied on a new course roughly at right angles 
to the first, and the ship trembled and shook as our 
guns opened fire. But those ominous splashes from 
the cruiser’s shell seemed to follow our every move- 
ment. They came nearer and nearer, until I once 
more heard the jagged splinters whirring and hum- 
ming overhead. I felt rather sick. 

Then, with a sound like a thunder-clap, a shell 
hurtled close over the bridge and plumped into the 
water about 50 feet the other side of our bows. An- 
other, passing over us amidships, fell close alongside 
the first, while three or four more landed between 10 
and 70 yards short. They burst, but had been de- 
scending at such a steep angle on account of the long 
range, that their splinters, instead of continuing their 
forward flight, expended their energy in flying almost 


220 


The Sub 


vertically into the air. Consequently, when they came 
down again they fell with the force of gravity only, 
and I heard some of them clanging, rattling, and 
thudding on our steel deck and against the funnels. 
Had the range been a little shorter and the trajectory 
flatter, that salvo would have made a shambles of 
the men on deck. 

We were being straddled. The enemy had our ex- 
act range, and but for that merciful gap of about 30 
yards we should have been hit. 

“Starboard fifteen! Steer due west!” I heard the 
skipper say coolly. 

He was avoiding the next salvo, and sure enough, 
when it came, it spouted into the sea astern and slightly 
beyond us. 

Our guns ceased firing for the moment as the ship 
swung round on her heel. The alteration of course 
brought the enemy on to our port quarter, but she 
seemed terribly close, barely more than 6,000 yards. 
And her guns were very busy. 

Another consignment of nastiness flew overhead as 
she started to find the range again, but all the time 
our two after guns were blazing away at her. I was 
watching their splashes drawing nearer and nearer to 
their target, when, quite suddenly, there came a deep 
red gout of flame and a cloud of black smoke on her 
forecastle. One of our shells had gone home on her, 
at any rate. I could almost have shouted for joy. 

But she still came on. From 6,000 yards she drew 
in to 5,500, and then to 5,000, a short 2 j 4 miles. Her 
forecastle gun had evidently been knocked out, for 


A Certain Liveliness 


221 


it was firing no longer, but yawning slightly off her 
course every now and then to bring her broadside guns 
to bear she let fly an occasional salvo. Her shooting 
was slower than before and not quite so accurate, so 
that it seemed that those on board her, confident that 
we were permanently crippled and could never escape, 
were saving their ammunition to polish us off at close 
quarters. 

Unless the Chief got the ship travelling at her 
proper speed again, our destruction seemed nothing 
but a matter of time. 

Our guns were firing as fast as they could, and sev- 
eral times between the rifts of smoke I saw the unmis- 
takable ruby flash and the cloud of yellow or black 
smoke caused by a shell driving home and exploding. 
We were hitting her, and that was always something, 
for she had not hit us up to the present. 

Then, annoyed at her punishment, she yawed again 
and opened up another heavy burst at no more than 
4,500 yards. Our helm went over as soon as we saw 
the flashes, but it was by far the most accurate and 
galling fire we had yet endured, for the projectiles, 
missing us literally by feet, seemed to be rushing 
through the air and pitching in the sea all round us 
at the same moment, so that there was no dodging 
them. 

But the skipper had yet another card to play, for 
I saw him put his hand on an electric push communi- 
cating with the engine-room and press it up and down. 
He then gazed aft, nonchalantly sucking his thumb, 


222 


The Sub 


and I saw that our smoke was becoming momentarily 
thicker and thicker. 

I did not grasp what was happening, until, thirty 
seconds later, the funnels were vomiting forth a roll- 
ing, billowing cloud of inky blackness, so thick and so 
solid-looking that it seemed as if one could almost 
walk upon it. 

By using the helm very cleverly he then manoeuvred 
to keep this impenetrable pall between u_ and the 
enemy, and presently the whining of the hostile shell 
ceased. Their gunlayers could see nothing to fire at. 
We were saved for the present. I wiped my stream- 
ing face and breathed again. ^ 

Then, a few minutes later, the Chief, his face, 
hands, and brown overalls streaked and saturated with 
grime and oil-fuel, appeared on the bridge. 

“I’ve cleared that confusticated pipe !” he exclaimed 
breathlessly, wiping his face with a filthy handker- 
chief. “I’m whacking her up all I know. Lord !” in 
an undertone, “I could do with a drink!” 

I could have fallen on his neck and kissed him, so 
great was my relief. 

“Good on you, old boy!” the skipper laughed light- 
heartedly, patting him affectionately on the arm. “You 
shall have a bucket of bubbly wine at my expense. 
You only did it just in time, though. Another minute 
or two and . . .” He shrugged his shoulders sugges- 
tively and pointed at the sea. 

“Was it as bad as all that?” asked Prettyman with 
a yawn. 

“Bad! I should jolly well think it was, old bird. 


A Certain Liveliness 


223 


You should have seen the bricks flying about. If I 
hadn’t remembered to ask you to put up that nice 
little drop of smoke we’d have been doing a V.C. act 
by now. Sinking with our colours nailed to the mast, 
and all the rest of it!” 

“War’s a dirty business!” grumbled the engineer 
officer. “And me with a wife and three children. 
Anybody got a gasper?” 

I handed him his cigarette and helped him to light 
it. “Thanks,” he said, puffing out the smoke with a 
contented sigh. “And now I’d better be going below 
again in case anything else goes fut. By the way, 
though,” he added. “Next time you want me to put 
up smoke you might make the proper signal, sir.” 

“Proper signal!” said the skipper. “What d’you 
mean, Chief?” 

“Only that you kept on pressing that push of yours 
three times instead of four. Three, if you remember, 
is the signal for ‘You are making too much smoke.’ ” 

“I’m sorry, old boy,” apologised the Captain, laugh- 
ing. “I clean forgot. But how did you know what 
we wanted ?” 

“I didn’t know,” said Prettyman, disappearing 
down the ladder. “I guessed!” 

We had not suffered one direct hit, and though 
splinters had rained upon us the only damage was a 
dent or two in the funnels and three minute holes in 
the canvas bridge screens. Moreover, our sole casual- 
ties were one black eye and a swollen nose, due to 
two sailors taking a fancy to the same shell splinter 
which had dropped on deck at their feet. They both 


224 


The Sub 


wanted it as a memento, and there was a difference 
of opinion as to which of them it rightly belonged. 

And when next we saw our enemy she was a small 
blur on the horizon streaking back to Germany as fast 
as she could. The other destroyers and ourselves 
went after her, but we never got near her, as the fog 
shut down and concealed her from view. 

“Liveliness !” grunted the skipper, reading the 
newspaper the next day. “Lord, if that’s what they 
call it, let’s try something else!” 

He passed the whole affair off as a huge joke, but 
I am tolerably certain that every officer and man in 
the Lictor realised that only a merciful Providence, 
aided and abetted by the Captain himself, had saved 
us. And Providence rarely helps those who don’t 
help themselves. 


CHAPTER XI 


Heligoland 

i 

H ERE,” said our Lieutenant-Commander, air- 
ly waving a pair of closed dividers over a 
chart of the North Sea before finally deposit- 
ing their business ends on a small speck of an island 
tucked well in under the German coast. 

“Here’s Heligoland, which, as you’ll all know, is 
heavily fortified and is used as a destroyer base. This,” 
as the pointer travelled eastward, “is Brunsbiittel, the 
North Sea entrance to the Kiel Canal. Here is Cux- 
haven, another destroyer base, and this is Wilhelms- 
haven, where they probably keep some of their High 
Sea Fleet. At the present moment we are somewhere 
about here.” 

He indicated a spot about half-way across the chart 
and to the west-south-westward of the roughly equi- 
lateral triangle whose points are formed by the island 
of Sylt, to the north ; Borkum, to the south ; and the 
entrance to the River Elbe, to the eastward. 

“At daylight to-morrow we shall arrive about here,” 
and the pointer stopped within a few miles of Heli- 
goland. 

The speaker looked round at his audience with that 
22 5 


226 


The Sub 


peculiar half smile of his and the characteristic wrin- 
kles round the corners of his eyes. His cap, as usual, 
was slightly askew, and he wore his invariable sea- 
going war-time garments, consisting of a pair of dis- 
reputable grey flannel trousers, a light blue flannel 
shirt, an absolutely villainous monkey jacket, with a 
pair of glasses slung round his neck. 

It was a homely little gathering. The skipper had 
come off the bridge for a few minutes to hold one 
of his “mother's meetings,” during which, when any 
particular operation was about to take place, it was 
his habit to explain to the ship’s company what was 
going to happen. 

“Tell ’em what’s going on,” he used to say, “and 
they’ll all be as keen as mustard. Tell ’em nothing, 
and you can’t expect ’em to take much interest. It’s 
not human nature.” 

He was perfectly right, but I doubt if even he quite 
realised how well his little war lectures went down, 
or how much his hearers appreciated being taken into 
his confidence. I did, for I sometimes heard the 
remarks which were passed after he left. 

And now, as he paused and looked at the chart, the 
men remained silent in rapt attention, eager to drink 
in every word. There were quite fifty or sixty of 
them present, nearly all the crew, in fact, crowded 
in the little space between the galley and the forecastle 
mess-deck. And a very representative collection they 
were: engine-room artificers in their working over- 
alls, petty officers, seamen in their leather sea-boots 


Heligoland 


227 


and lammy coats , 1 stokers in grimy flannel shirts and 
oily fearnought trousers, officers’ stewards, and even 
“cookie” in his white jacket and apron. Some sat 
tailor-fashion on the deck or knelt. Others stood, with 
those behind craning over their shoulders and breath- 
ing heavily into their ears so as not to miss a single 
word. They were all interested. 

“Our submarines are going nosing round about here 
on the surface at daylight to-morrow,” the skipper 
continued, waggling the compass points round about 
Heligoland. “They’re the bait, and we hope that the 
enemy’s destroyers will chase ’em out to sea. Our 
little bunch — the two light-cruisers and the destroyers, 
that is — go in astern of the submarines to mop up 
anything the Germans send out. The battle-cruisers 
with a light-cruiser squadron, and another lot of older 
cruisers, are further out to sea to support us in case 
we get it in the neck.” 

“It is known that the Germans have patrols out,” 
he went on, “so we’re out for blood, and are prac- 
tically certain to have fun of some kind. It is our job 
to drive in their patrols and to sink and destroy what 
we can, and though it looks quite a simple little busi- 
ness on the chart, its success or otherwise naturally 
depends on what we tumble up against.” 

The audience stiffened themselves and looked at 
each other with doubtful grins on their faces. 

“We may be able to walk straight through them, 

1 Lammy coats. The name given to the thick fearnought 
watch coats with hoods provided by the Government for use 
at sea. 


228 


The Sub 


but if we barge into anything big, like a cruiser, it is 
quite possible that we may have to cut and run for it. 
At any rate, at daylight to-morrow the chances are a 
hundred to one that we shall find ourselves going 
into action, so you must all be on the top line. Has 
anyone any questions to ask?” 

They shook their heads in silence. 

“Well, I don’t think I’ve very much more to tell 
you, except to say that I know you’ll all do your best 
to— er — keep up the good name of the ship. You’ve 
been under fire before, and I have no doubt that you’ll 
do well this time, but I hope there won’t be any more 
choked pipes in the boiler rooms, and that you will 
not” — he laid some emphasis on the word — “forget 
to take the caps off the lyddite shell before you put 
them into the guns. . . .” 

The men tittered, for it w r as common knowledge 
that on the occasion when the German light-cruiser 
had chased us, at least four lyddite shell had been 
fired in the excitement of the moment with their caps 
still in place, in which condition it was extremely im- 
probable that they could have burst. 

“Look out it doesn’t happen again,” he went on to 
say, “because it’s rather important. Another thing. 
You’ll be piped to breakfast rather earlier than usual, 
probably half-past four or thereabouts, as it’s a good 
plan to go into action with something inside you. I 
think that’s all . . . no, I forgot. I advise you all to 
wear clean underclothes.” 

Somebody was evidently amused. 

“You may laugh,” the Captain said, smiling him- 


Heligoland 


229 


self. “But clean clothes are very important. If you 
get wounded and a bit of dirty rag gets carried in to 
your wound the results are very unpleasant. They 
found that in the Russo-Japanese war, so bear it in 
mind. That's all, and good luck to everybody.” 

“And the same to you, sir,” in an appreciative 
chorus. 

“You take us alongside them Germans and see what 
we gives 'em, sir,” came an enthusiastic voice from 
behind. “We've bin waitin' for this 'ere!'' 

“And I’m very glad to hear it,” returned the Cap- 
tain, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve no doubt you'll give 
'em the time of their lives!” 

There was a general laugh and the gathering broke 
up in a buzz of excited talk. 

I am not likely to forget that particular “mother's 
meeting.” It took place on the evening of August 
27th, and within four and twenty hours we had been 
amply blooded. 

11 

Long before daylight the next morning our men had 
eaten their first meal and had mustered at their action 
stations. The weather was fine, with hardly a breath 
of wind or a ripple on the water, and when at last 
the first signs of dawn came out of the east every 
soul in the ship who happened to be on deck was 
straining his eyes in the dim half-light in a vain en- 
deavour to probe the thin mist which overlay the 
surface of the sea. It was an exciting and anxious 
time, for Heligoland was not very far away, and 


230 


The Sub 


at any moment we might see a dark blurred patch 
betokening the presence of a hostile cruiser or de- 
stroyer. 

Daylight came, and still there was nothing in sight, 
though as we gradually drew in towards the land the 
haze thickened, until at last we could see no further 
than about three miles. Still we steamed on, getting 
nearer and nearer to our objective. The suspense 
of waiting for we knew not what became well-nigh 
intolerable. 

I was on the bridge. An hour passed, and just 
before seven o’clock I found myself gazing idly at 
a number of those little black-and-white dipper duck, 
parrot-beaked puffins, as I believe they are really 
called. They were evidently married puffins, for they 
swam about in pairs, each little man with his wife, 
and as we came up to them they regarded us with 
frightened eyes, and, not liking our looks, reared their 
little pointed sterns in the air and disappeared with 
a series of “plops” to the quiet depths below. Poor 
wee birds! I fear we disturbed their happy idyll, 
but I gazed at them with some interest. There was 
some romance attached to them, for we were now 
so close to the enemy’s coast that they must be Ger- 
man puffins, not the ordinary common-or-garden Brit- 
ish ones we were so familiar with. 

But my reverie was interrupted by a sudden excla- 
mation from the Captain, and looking ahead I saw 
the long shape of a hostile destroyer half veiled in 
the mist to the eastward. She was two and a half 
or three miles away, and the Arethusa, our leader, 


Heligoland 


231 


sighted her at much the same time, for the next mo- 
ment a string of flags went up to her masthead. 

“Fourth division’s been ordered to chase to the 
eastward, sir,” said our signalman unconcernedly, 
reading the flags through his telescope. 

The four destroyers, of whom we were not one, 
dashed off at full speed with a suddenly-increasing 
cloud of smoke and the white water piled up astern 
of them. They looked for all the world like a pack 
of thoroughbred terriers after a rat, and the German, 
quite rightly, turned tail and made off. We watched, 
breathless with excitement. 

Then, one by one, within a minute or so of our 
sighting the first, the shapes of more and more hostile 
torpedo-craft loomed up through the haze. Another 
signal from the Arethusa, followed by a slight altera- 
tion of course to cut them off from their base, and the 
orange flash and a cloud of brown smoke as her fore- 
most six-inch gun gave tongue. The deep roar of 
the report came to our ears. It was the first shot of 
the battle, and before we saw the distant splash of the 
shell and heard the dull rumble of its explosion, we 
were going hell-for-leather after them. The Germans, 
considerably outnumbered, did the only possible thing 
— they sought safety in flight. 

“This,” exclaimed the skipper, his eyes glistening, 
“is going to be a little bit of all right!” 

It is quite useless for me to attempt to describe the 
battle as a whole from my own personal observation. 
It was no set and ordered engagement in which squad- 
rons and flotillas fought each other in regular forma- 


232 


The Sub 


tion, but developed into more or less of a melee, a 
series of scattered, rather confused ship-to-ship en- 
counters fought over a large area and in which we 
had little idea of what went on beyond our immediate 
range of vision. And the visibility, to add to the un- 
certainty, was no more than six thousand yards at 
any time of the day. 

For nearly an hour we chased numerous destroyers 
and torpedo-boats which were making off as hard as 
they could go in the direction of Heligoland. We 
fired heavily upon them as we went, but though our 
shell could be seen pitching in the water and exploding 
all round them, it was impossible to see the result 
of the shooting on account of the mist and the long 
range. Still, I don’t think they got off scathless. 

It was at about eight o’clock, however, that we 
suddenly saw the blurred outlines of two heavier ves- 
sels on the port bow of the Arethusa. One of them 
had four funnels and the other two, and the next min- 
ute, when the gun flashes started to sparkle up and 
down their sides, we knew them for German light- 
cruisers. The Arethusa, concentrating most of her 
fire on the nearest, promptly engaged them both, and 
for fully a quarter of an hour there ensued an unequal 
fight in which the British ship, a brand-new vessel, by 
the way, which had only left the dockyard a short 
forty-eight hours before, was pitted against two ene- 
mies of her own size, not to mention several destroyers 
which presently joined them. We British destroyers, 
though rather scattered, did what we could to equalise 


Heligoland 


233 


the business, though the range was rather too long 
for our 4-inch guns to be really effective. 

I shall never forget the magnificent spectacle of 
the Arethusa in her first action. At times her entire 
grey shape was literally blotted out by the shell spout- 
ing into the sea all round her, but then she would 
emerge from the turmoil of spray for an instant with 
her guns still blazing merrily away. She was hit again 
and again, and now and then through the yellow cor- 
dite smoke and the columns of water we saw the ruby- 
red flashes and clouds of black smoke as projectiles 
struck her and exploded. How she could endure such 
a volume of fire without being sunk seemed nothing 
short of a miracle, but she hung on to her immediate 
antagonist, the two-funneller, with a grip which never 
relaxed, until at last they were mutually hammering 
each other at a range of barely more than 3,000 yards, 
or miles. It was too hot to last. 

The German, though she fought gallantly, was also 
having a bad time, for on several occasions through 
the rifts in the smoke we saw the British shell driving 
home and bursting on board her. Then at last there 
came a bright greenish-golden flash as a six-inch pro- 
jectile exploded underneath her bridge and demolished 
it. The blow evidently disabled her, for when next 
we caught sight of her she had discontinued the en- 
gagement and was making off to the eastward. 

Just before this our other light-cruiser, the Fearless, 
which had been detached with some of her destroyers 
to chase in another direction, came up at full speed 
and poured a furious fire on the four-funnelled Ger- 


234 


The Sub 


man which was still engaging the Arethusa. The four- 
funneller at once transferred her attention to the 
Fearless , and for some time the two ships were at it 
hammer and tongs. 

I was still watching them, when the skipper took 
me by the arm and pointed out on the starboard bow. 
I looked, and there, at a bare three and a half miles, 
was a clump of red cliffs glimmering through the haze. 
They could be only one thing — Heligoland! 

I held my breath and waited, expecting at any in- 
stant to see flashes as the heavy guns on the island 
opened fire. But they never did. They did not fire 
a single shot, and the next thing that happened was 
a general signal for all ships and destroyers to retire 
to the westward and to reform on the Arethusa. We 
did so with some thankfulness. A nearer approach 
to those red cliffs would have been distinctly un- 
healthy. 

For some time we steamed to the westward, while 
the Arethusa, which had suffered a severe gruelling at 
the hands of her two opponents, did what she could 
to repair her damage. It was not until afterwards, 
when we heard the full story, that we realised what 
a terrible hammering she had sustained, for, hit repeat- 
edly, she had had many casualties and incurred dam- 
age to the machinery and boilers so that her speed 
was considerably reduced. But not only this: every 
gun and torpedo-tube in the ship, with the exception 
of one 6 inch, had been disabled, while a bursting 
shell, setting alight to some ammunition on deck, had 



“l SHALL NEVER FORGET THE ARETHUSA 
IN HER FIRST ACTION.” 







Heligoland 


235 


started a fire which set the woodwork in a blaze before 
it was finally extinguished. 

But her commanding officer, our leader, was not the 
type of man to throw up the sponge and to retire from 
the scene of action because his ship was temporarily 
hors de combat. On the contrary, he promptly set to 
work to replenish his deck supply of ammunition, to 
get his guns into working order, and to strike his 
wounded below, confident that before very long he 
would meet another enemy. And he did. 

At ten o’clock or thereabouts we received a wire- 
less signal to tell us that the two destroyers working 
with the submarines inshore of us were being chased 
by light-cruisers, whereupon the Arethusa, Fearless, 
and all available destroyers present swung round to go 
to their assistance. But nothing came of it, for after 
proceeding in their direction for about half an hour 
we were once more dangerously close to Heligoland 
and had received no further news. So there was 
nothing for it but again to alter course to seaward. 

But we were by no means out of the mill yet. At 
about eleven o’clock, by which time the Arethusa had 
luckily been able to repair most of her guns and fill 
up her shell racks, a hostile four-funneller suddenly 
hove up out of the mist and opened a very heavy fire, 
concentrating on the Arethusa. The situation, on ac- 
count of the latter vessel’s damage, was rather criti- 
cal, but both she and the Fearless returned the fire, 
while some destroyers were ordered to close in on 
the enemy and to attack with torpedoes. They dashed 
off at top speed with shell splashing all round them, 


236 


The Sub 


and the German, not liking the look of affairs, sheered 
off to avoid them and disappeared in the mist. 

We were not free of our unwelcome friend yet, for 
in less than ten minutes she reappeared from another 
direction and again opened fire. Our two cruisers 
answered as before, hitting her frequently and doing 
her great damage, while another bunch of destroyers 
sped off to attack with torpedoes. 

How the Arethusa escaped being sunk at this time 
was nothing short of a miracle. She seemed literally 
smothered in splashes and bursting shell, though, in 
the words of the official report, “salvo after salvo fell 
between ten and thirty yards short, but not a single 
shell struck.” 

Providence was on our side that day, for after a 
brief action the German, badly damaged, made off 
in the direction of Heligoland. 

About five minutes later another enemy appeared, 
and this time it was the Mainz, one of the crack shoot- 
ing ships of the German Navy. She opened fire at 
once, to which the Arethusa and Fearless replied. We 
also blazed away at her, but what the result was I 
never knew, for just then a signal went up. 

“Division's been ordered to attack with torpedoes, 
sir!” the signalman suddenly shouted. 

“Thank you, Giles,” said the Captain, perfectly 
coolly. “Sub, whistle down to the tubes and tell them 
to stand by!” 

At the moment he made this remark I was feeling 
sick, desperately sick, for a salvo of shell had just 
whizzed close overhead with their devilish howling 


Heligoland 


237 


and screeching, whereat I, unable to restrain myself, 
ducked. But the skipper, as usual, never turned a 
hair. He paid no other attention to those beastly pro- 
jectiles than to wave them aside as if they had been 
a cloud of gnats. “Confound the fellow!” he said 
casually. “Why can’t he choose something his own 
size!” I looked at him and marvelled. One would 
have imagined that he had been at this sort of thing 
all his life. 

There wasn’t much time for thinking, for the next 
moment the leader of our division clapped on full 
speed and swung round almost at right-angles to 
the original course. The rest of us, strung out in her 
wake, followed, and with the old ship throbbing and 
shaking like a jelly we charged full tilt at the enemy, 
who instantly concentrated her fire upon us. 

Her shooting was excellent, for the splashes were 
simply vomiting from the sea all round our divisional 
leader, while every now and then we saw the unmis- 
takable flash of an explosion as she was hit. But still 
she sped on, until, in the midst of a perfect hail of 
projectiles, she suddenly altered course and fired a 
torpedo. 

The sea a short distance ahead of us was spouting 
white water like a fringe of rocky coast in a gale of 
wind. The enemy was concentrating every gun that 
would bear on our turning-point, the area through 
which we must pass before we could bring our torpedo 
tubes into line to fire. It was an exciting moment. 

Another destroyer in the line turned, and I saw the 
silvery flash of her torpedo as it left the tube. . . . 


238 


The Sub 


We were steaming nearly thirty knots. That spout- 
ing area of sea came rapidly closer. 

“Fire when your sights come on !” nodded the skip- 
per, looking at me over his shoulder as I stood at the 
voice-pipe. 

“Starboard fifteen, Bewles!” 

I just managed to pass the order through before we 
entered the terrible zone. The air suddenly became 
full of howling, screeching, and whining, louder, far 
louder, than anything we had ever heard before. For 
no apparent reason, but due, no doubt, to a shell fall- 
ing short, I suddenly felt myself drenched to the skin. 
Then the ship shuddered, there came a terrific detona- 
tion, and a gout of flame sprang up before my eyes, 
followed by the sickening stench of explosives. A 
crash and another roaring detonation from somewhere 
aft, and all the time the whizzing and humming of 
splinters and the booming reports of the guns. 

The Mainz was certainly a good shooting ship, but 
even now I really don’t know all that took place while 
she paid us her unwelcome attention. It was a 
ghastly experience. It lasted, perhaps, for a minute 
or a minute and a half. It seemed more like an in- 
terminable nightmare, for seconds passed like hours. 

Then the clatter of the guns and the horrible din 
of the shell grew fainter as we drew out of range and 
our follower passed through the same ordeal as our- 
selves. We were no longer being fired at, and to me 
it felt like coming out of a stuffy, overheated room into 
the cool outside air. It was a relief! 

I had expected the ship to be sunk, or at any rate 


Heligoland 


239 


to be so damaged as to be unable to steam, but to my 
intense surprise and joy we still seemed to be trav- 
elling at much the same speed as before, and every 
second took us further and further from those ter- 
rible guns and nearer to our own friends. 

Then, in the midst of the noise, I heard a dull, rend- 
ing boom which sounded for all the world like the 
slamming of a steel, velvet-covered door in a lightly 
built house, if such a thing can be imagined. 

I looked at the Captain enquiringly, and he looked 
at me. 

“Torpedo,” he said abruptly, turning aside and giv- 
ing another order to the coxswain. “Someone's got 
her!” 

When I had time to look about me I could see that 
the Mains was practically done for. She had stopped, 
and was very much down by the bows, while splashes 
were darting out of the water all round her. She was 
blazing furiously amidships, but still the pitiless shell 
sought her out, for time and time again I saw the 
sheets and gouts of flame as they struck and exploded. 

Next the roar of guns from closer at hand, and our 
light-cruiser squadron, headed by the Southampton , 
appeared on the scene at full speed to finish her off. 
In less than five minutes their concentrated fire had 
reduced the unhappy Mains to little more than a blaz- 
ing, sinking wreck. One mast and two funnels were 
knocked overboard, while her port side was riddled 
like a nutmeg grater through the holes in which we 
could see the glare of the inferno inside, Her guns 


240 


The Sub 


were demolished or flung off their mountings and her 
deck a chaotic shambles of twisted, riven steel and the 
bodies of the dead and wounded. The fire amidships 
was still burning furiously, so that smoke and flame 
poured from her as from an erupting volcano. 

Then, as she faded away into the mist, the firing 
ceased, and when last I saw her she was sinking by 
the head and a cruiser and destroyer, both British, 
were standing by to pick up her survivors. The time 
was about fifteen minutes past noon. 

A bare seven minutes later the Arethusa and our- 
selves were again in action at long range with a fresh 
antagonist, the four-funnelled light-cruiser Koln, 
when, looming up through the haze, we saw the huge 
grey shapes of four of our battle-cruisers coming to 
our assistance at full speed. They were the Lion, 
Queen Mary , Invincible , and New Zealand , and as 
they came on, grim, menacing, and silent, their huge 
bulks seemed to fill the whole horizon. Our latest 
enemy was pointed out to them, whereupon they al- 
tered course to get in between her and Heligoland, 
and presently, when they had vanished in the mist to 
the eastward, we heard the rolling thunder of their 
heavy guns. Then silence. 

We steamed on to the westward at the Arethusa' s 
best speed, and again at one o’clock in the afternoon 
and half an hour later the deep rumble of guns came 
travelling across the water from the eastward as the 
battle-cruisers sank the Ariadne and Koln. Then si- 
lence again, followed by a general signal from Sir 


Heligoland 241 

David Beatty — “Lion to all ships and destroyers — - 
RETIRE/’ 

The Battle of the Bight was over. 

in 

Providence had been very kind, for when, at about 
two o’clock, the Captain sent me down to find what 
damage and casualties we had sustained, I was able 
to return with a very satisfactory report. There were 
no killed, only Mr. Cotter and four men slightly 
wounded by splinters, and Barter and Higgins, able 
seamen, and a stoker called Goff, rather worse. 

“What!” the skipper ejaculated, staring at me in 
amazement. “Nobody killed?” 

“No, sir. Not one.” 

“Thank God!” he exclaimed thankfully. “Lord, 
what luck! I thought at least half of ’em would be 
wiped out. How about the ship ?” 

“Nothing really serious, sir,” I told him. “One 
shell got us right aft in the stern and burst on deck. 
The splinters just missed the steering gear, but other- 
wise it’s only torn up the deck and blown some of the 
side-plating about. Nobody was hurt, and if this 
weather holds there’s no danger, as all the damage is 
above the waterline.” 

“Humph!” he muttered indistinctly, cramming the 
remains of a corned beef sandwich into his mouth. 
“And what about this hit forward here? I see old 
Fanny’s got it in the neck, thank heaven!” 

“Fanny,” I may observe, was our motorboat, a hor- 


242 


The Sub 


rible, one-cylindered craft which was the bane of our 
existence, for she gave us an infinite amount of trouble 
and never by any chance ran when we most particu- 
larly wanted her. And even when she did consent to 
heave round she had a habit of breaking down in a 
strong tideway miles away from anywhere, and, with 
her crew exhausting their profane vocabulary, had to 
be towed ignominiously back to the ship by some good 
Samaritan of a steamboat. We had tried to get rid 
of her by fair means and foul. Time and time again, 
having been damaged, she was sent to the dockyard for 
survey in the hope that they would supply us with a 
new and more reliable boat, but as often she had been 
patched up and returned to us as still serviceable. 

The job had been done pretty successfully this time, 
however. No dockyard on earth could do anything 
for her, for Fanny, at the hands of a bursting shell, 
had undergone an operation from which she could 
never recover. The whole of her midship portion, 
including the diabolical engine itself, had been 
shredded in bits and hurled overboard, and nothing 
remained but a few splintered, blackened planks hang- 
ing mournfully from each davit. She was not a pretty 
sight. 

“Thank goodness !” laughed the skipper. “They’ll 
jolly well have to give us a new boat this journey!’’ 

So we cast her mangled remains into the North 
Sea and went on our way rejoicing. 

The same shell had torn up the deck and had per- 
forated the foremost funnel with holes of all sizes un- 
til it looked like a huge colander. The galley, too, had 


Heligoland 


243 


been knocked endways, and the cooking range, the 
pots and pans, the men's dinner, together with much 
soot and various of the cook’s garments which had 
been hanging up to dry, were scattered by the four 
winds of heaven and littered all over the landscape. 
One of the ammunition supply party, indeed, a stoker, 
even tried to make out he was wounded because he 
had been hit a resounding crack on the side of the head 
by a red-hot, half-baked potato. 

It was the splinters from this same projectile which 
had caused most of our casualties, for the slivers of 
steel had flown here, there, and everywhere. More- 
over, it was only by the sheerest good fortune that the 
foremost boiler was not put out of action. As it was, 
our speed was only lessened by a knot or two due to 
the loss of draught on account of the perforations in 
the funnel. So these items, and several small punc- 
tures in the starboard side-plating caused by frag- 
ments from shell bursting short, were the sum-total 
of our injuries. We were extremely lucky. 

Presently, when the First Lieutenant came on the 
bridge, and the skipper and myself went below to visit 
the wounded, we found them all as merry as crickets. 
They were sitting up in their hammocks smoking 
cigarettes and arguing loudly with each other as to 
how much sick leave their respective wounds were 
worth. We carried no Surgeon-Probationer in those 
days, and their hurts had all been bandaged by No. 1 
and the coxswain, both of whom were supposed to be 
qualified in First Aid, though the coxswain, at any 
rate, had very hazy ideas on the subject. 


244 


The Sub 


The babel ceased abruptly as the Captain entered 
the forecastle. 

“Well, Barter,” he said in his best bedside manner, 
“I’m sorry you’ve been hit. How goes it?” 

“Fair to middlin’, thank you, sir,” said the patient, 
concealing his cigarette and doing his best to look ill. 
“My legs hurts me a bit when I moves, sir, but I’m 
all right otherwise.” 

“I’m glad of that. We’ll pack you off to hospital 
as soon as we get in. They’ll soon put you right 
there.” 

“But look here, sir,” Barter went on in an under- 
tone, looking anxiously round to see that nobody was 
listening. “The cox’n’s starvin’ me, sir. He says 
I’m to have nothin’ but bread and milk t’eat till we 
gets back! I told him it wasn’t fair, ’cos my hunger 
was somethin’ crool, and then he given me one o’ them 
there pills of his!” 

“A pill!” 

“Yessir!” 

“But you were hit in the leg, weren’t you?” 

“Yessir, splinter through the leg above the knee, 
sir.” 

“A pill!” the Captain repeated with a frown. 

“Yessir. The cox’n says it would take down the 
inflammation and bumin’ feelin’s wot he says I’ye 
got!” 

“Have you got a burning feeling, then?” the skip- 
per inquired. 

“No, sir. Only I’m that hungry I could swallow 
a goat!” 


Heligoland 


245 


“But did you swallow the pill, Barter ?” 

“Oh no, sir !” in a voice of deepest indignation. “I 
dropped it on the deck when the cox'n wasn’t 
lookin' 1” 

“What is the grievance, then?” the Captain asked, 
smiling. 

“I haven't got no grievance, sir,” the patient ex- 
plained sheepishly, “but I doesn't want to be starved, 
sir.” 

Lennon burst out laughing. 

“You want a square meal, what?” 

“Yessir.” 

“And what would you call a square meal?” 

“Depends, sir.” 

“How d'you mean?” 

“Depends on what there is to eat, sir. I could do 
with three or four kippers, or maybe half a dozen eggs 
and a slice or two of bacon and some bread and jam, 
sir. You see, sir,” he added in a whisper, “it isn’t 
fair to give me nothin' t'eat. I had me breakfast at 
five o'clock this mornin', and I gets wounded about 
eleven and my scran 1 stops automatic. Leastways, 
that’s what Petty Orficer Bewles says, anyhow!” 

“All right, Barter, I'll see what can be done,” said 
the skipper, chuckling with amusement. “Perhaps I 
can find something for you in the wardroom pantry.” 

“I don't fancy no slops, sir.” 

“I quite understand. Something solid, eh?” 

“Yessir,” very gratefully. “Thank you, sir!” and 
Barter, having achieved his purpose, lay back on his 
* Scran, *>. food. 


246 


The Sub 


pillow with a satisfied sigh, winked solemnly at a ship- 
mate behind the Captain’s back, and produced another 
cigarette. 

They were all as happy as children at the panto- 
mime, and even Mr. Cotter, who was sometimes in- 
clined to be a bit of a pessimist, was all over smiles 
when we visited him in his cabin. He had a splinter 
through the palm of his left hand and a nasty gash in 
his left forearm. His wounds must have been rather 
painful, but with the injured members well swathed 
in bandages, and arrayed in a suit of puce-coloured 
pyjamas, he was sitting up in his bunk sucking the 
stub end of a pencil as he composed a letter to his wife. 

“Well, sir,” he said proudly, as we left his cabin 
after asking him how he felt and all the rest of it, 
“there’s one thing that I do know, and that is that 
it was our torpedo that did for that cruiser!” 

Very possibly it was, but at least six other destroy- 
ers claimed the same distinction, and for some time 
afterwards nearly 4 all the gunners (T) in the flotilla 
went about calling each other names. 

Our damage did not necessitate a very long sojourn 
in the dockyard, and, to our inexpressible relief, we 
presently acquired a new twin-cylinder motor-boat in 
place of the defunct Fanny. We also got about five 
days’ leave, which did not come at all amiss. 

I don’t think I need talk of all the various inci- 
dents in connection with the “Battle of the Bight,” and 
which filtered through afterwards. The details of the 
sinking of the German destroyer V 187; the rescuing 
by Submarine E 4 of the occupants of a destroyer’s 


Heligoland 


247 


boat which had been lowered to pick up the enemy’s 
survivors, and then had to be abandoned because a hos- 
tile cruiser appeared on the scene and opened fire at the 
critical moment; how one destroyer captain, badly 
wounded in both legs, fought his ship till the end of 
the engagement and then remained 'sitting on a camp- 
stool on his bridge until six o’clock in the evening be- 
fore he could be persuaded to go below; and the case 
of the destroyer who, badly damaged in her machin- 
ery and boilers, and unable to move, was gallantly 
towed out of action by her mate — these, and other 
similar happenings, have all been mentioned in the 
newspapers and the official despatches which came out 
afterwards. 

I do not intend to convey the impression that the 
engagement was a second Trafalgar, or anything of 
that kind. It was nothing more nor less than a recon- 
naissance in force; but that, in the words of the Ad- 
miralty, it was both “fortunate and fruitful,” there is 
no denying. It was attended by great risk, for the 
battle was fought in the enemy’s own water and within 
about twenty-five miles of two powerful naval bases, 
but yet a kind Providence favoured us, for we lost 
no ships at all and escaped with the insignificant cas- 
ualty list of sixty-nine killed and wounded all told. 
The enemy, on the other hand, lost three light-cruis- 
ers, the Mains , Koln, and Ariadne, while two destroy- 
ers were actually seen to sink and many more must 
have been damaged. The complements of these five 
vessels must have aggregated at least 1 ,200 officers and 


248 


The Sub 


men, all of whom, with the exception of 330 picked 
up by our ships, perished. 

It was Heligoland, too, which earned for our leader 
his lower-deck nickname, and for a senior officer to 
have a pet-name among his men is a sure sign that he 
is regarded with the greatest affection and confidence. 
And the name he was unofficially and irreverently 
christened was ‘‘Blood Red Bill. ’Im ’oo looks for 
trouble !” 


CHAPTER XII 


On Bumps and Other Things 

i 

B EFORE I had been in the Lictor for very long, 
I quite endorsed the skipper’s opinion that 
most “bumps” and “crashes,” as he gaily called 
them, were mere bad joss directly attributable to the 
evil designs of the Noseless One, and that they could 
not have been avoided even if the Archangel Gabriel 
himself had temporarily assumed a naval uniform and 
had taken charge of the operations. Collisions and 
groundings in destroyers, if we are to believe the 
victims thereof, are always brought about by a con- 
catenation of circumstances over which they have no 
control. They are never anybody’s fault, of course 
not, though not infrequently the members of the re- 
sulting Court of Enquiry hold a contrary opinion. 

There were very few regrettable incidents, and to 
my inexperienced mind it was an amazing thing that 
we did not have more. The southern area of the 
North Sea in which we worked was a shallow, deso- 
late region of gales, fogs, and mist, with snow and 
sleet in the winter, while, as it was war-time, many 
of the offshore lightships and buoys had been removed 
and the coast lights were rarely exhibited at night. 
249 


250 


The Sub 


So, though we never admitted it, we sometimes lost 
ourselves, and finally made the low-lying coast dan- 
gerously close and at some place many miles from 
where we intended to be. In thick weather we always 
used the lead, but even so it gave little indication of 
our whereabouts, for the soundings were much of a 
muchness all over our domain. So after being at sea 
for forty-eight hours or more, with never a glimpse of 
the sun or land, our navigation was often largely a 
matter of conjecture. 

And in bad weather, too, things were even worse. 
How could it be otherwise when spray and rain to- 
gether had so soaked the chart that it resembled blot- 
ting-paper through the pulpy surface of which the 
softest B.B.B. pencil drove its way like a plough- 
share ? 

It is one thing to keep an accurate reckoning in a 
big ship where there is comparatively little movement 
even in a gale of wind, and the chart can be kept dry. 
But I soon discovered that it was a totally different job 
to know your exact whereabouts in foul weather in a 
destroyer if you were by yourself and were returning 
to harbour after doubling and redoubling on your 
tracks for a couple of days on patrol in the North 
Sea. The position from which you laid off your 
course was never too accurate, to start with, and with 
a heavy sea and half a gale of wind in your teeth you 
never quite knew what speed you were making good. 
Moreover, you lived in a perpetual shower-bath of 
icy spray, and, wet through to the skin, numb with 
cold, and possibly seasick as well, with the water 


On Bumps and Other Things 251 

streaming off your oilskins and percolating through 
your inner garments until it finally came to rest in 
your sea-boots, you strove to manipulate your pencil, 
dividers, and parallel rulers with one hand, while with 
the other you hung on like grim death to prevent your- 
self from being hurled headlong by the violent mo- 
tion. And at night the chances were four to one that 
the spray got at the electric-light leads, short circuited 
them, and left you at the critical moment without a 
glimmer of light in the chart-table. It is therefore not 
to be wondered at that, on comparing notes afterwards, 
we sometimes discovered that we had staggered home 
to our base across a particularly virulent minefield! 

When “Mother,” our light-cruiser, was with us, 
things were rather better. She carried a fully quali- 
fied navigating officer who could be depended upon 
to keep an accurate reckoning, even if it snowed sauce- 
pans, and so long as we stuck to her everything in the 
garden was lovely. But sometimes, just before dark, 
“Mother” might send us off over the rim of the hori- 
zon to examine a feather of smoke or a suspicious sail, 
and then, if the weather became foggy or darkness 
came down, we sometimes lost ourselves as success- 
fully as the babes in the wood. 

And I, if you please, was the Licto/s navigating 
officer. I almost blush to think of it. I was no 
Christopher Columbus, and looking back at sundry of 
our escapades I wonder we ever got home at all. The 
credit was mostly due to the skipper, I must admit, 
though he, shaking his head sadly, was sometimes wont 


252 


The Sub 


to remark that I should bring his bald head in sorrow 
to the grave. 

So singly, in pairs or fours, or with the whole flo- 
tilla together in close formation, we careered about 
the ocean at high speed until we knew, or thought we 
knew, its every fog-bank and shoal. We never used 
lights, not even on the darkest nights, and for every 
collision that actually took place, — and they were few 
— there were fully twenty narrow squeaks which went 
unrecorded. 

“I say, old chap,” somebody would say a day or two 
later, “weren't you a bit close to us during that al- 
teration of course in the middle watch the night be- 
fore last?” 

“Close!” murmured the other. “My dear fellow, 
we missed you by a good thirty feet! Besides, how 
were we to know you had eased to ten knots, you silly 
juggins? You never told us.” 

Often and often at night when I saw the dark mass 
of another destroyer coming closer and closer I felt 
my heart rising into my mouth, and hung on to the 
bridge rails waiting for the crash. Nevertheless, I 
was pleasantly disappointed, for somehow the skipper 
always had a premonition when things were going 
wrong, and invariably appeared on the bridge before 
these close shaves occurred. And as he had the happy 
knack of doing the right thing at the right moment 
we generally succeeded in steering clear without mis- 
hap. The captain was a lucky man, and was evidently 
on excellent terms with the little cherub who sat up 
aloft. 


On Bumps and Other Things 253 

Bumps, like gout and other ailments, sometimes run 
in families. Certain destroyer officers are born with 
golden spoons in their mouths and “brass hats” upon 
their heads, while others — alas ! — the unlucky ones, 
seem to have spent their infancy with a summons to 
attend a Court of Enquiry pinned to their swaddling 
clothes. Indeed, I know of one T.B.D. — wild mon- 
keys will not compel me to divulge her name — who had 
five collisions, groundings, or accidents, not to men- 
tion four Courts of Enquiry, all in six weeks. The 
commanding officer of that ship finished up by run- 
ning amok in a fog and removing most of the pavilion 
from the end of the promenade pier at a certain well- 
known watering place. I believe the Mayor and Cor- 
poration sued him for damages. 

It is as well that such folk should leave the destroyer 
service and seek the security of larger vessels where 
others will be responsible for the navigation, though 
it must have afforded some slight satisfaction to the 
victim of the pier-pavilion-removing C. of E. (Court 
of Enquiry, not “Church of England”), when his 
senior inquisitor was himself haled before another sim- 
ilar tribunal a week or two later for an investigation 
into the circumstances attending the loss of one of 
his screw propellers due to striking “sunken wreck- 
age.” “Sunken wreckage” covers a multitude of sins. 
Occasionally it is not sunken wreckage at all, merely 
rocks, sand, or shingle! 

Sometimes, for no apparent reason at all, a destroyer 
flotilla may be afflicted with an epidemic of bumps like 
the outbreaks of measles, chicken-pox, and whooping 


2 54 


The Sub 


cough we used to have at school. For a year or more 
all may have been peace, and then, in ten days or a 
fortnight, there may be a succession of collisions, run- 
ings-ashore, and damaged propellers which no earthly 
Court of Enquiry can satisfactorily explain, and no 
“severe displeasure” addressed to the responsible par- 
ties by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty 
can wholly eradicate. These epidemics, let me add, 
sometimes occur during the third month of the year, 
from which it would seem that hares are not the only 
animals smitten by March madness. 

But it is consoling to know that even the best peo- 
ple sometimes come to grief. It was a very shining 
light in the destroyer world who, in entering a cer- 
tain naval port in his first command — one of the old 
30-knot destroyers which we will call the Emu — took 
a short cut over a ledge of rocks at low water which 
the barest inspection of his blue-backed Tide Tables 
would have told him was altogether inadvisable. He 
wished to accelerate his arrival in harbour to catch a 
train, but, as usual, it was a case of more haste less 
speed, for there came a jar, a bump, and a succession 
of grinding crashes as he left his twin screws and rud- 
der on the rocks behind him. 

“Submitted,” was the irreverent signal he made to 
the Commander-in-Chief as his ship passed ignomini- 
ously up the harbour in tow of a dockyard tug. “Sub- 
mitted. Have had the misfortune to leave my tail 
feathers on the Greystone Ledge !” 

History says nothing of what the Admiral remarked 
on receiving this distressing information, but the epi- 


On Bumps and Other Things 255 


sode happened in the very early days of destroyers, 
and there was not even a Court of Enquiry, which was 
lucky for that very promising destroyer officer. Per- 
haps it was luckier, still, however — tell it not in Gath, 
publish it not in the streets of Askelon — that the C. 
in C. happened to be his connection by marriage. 
Otherwise . . . well, there is no knowing what might 
not have happened. 

That officer is now a very senior potentate with a 
“brass hat” and a string of letters after his name. He 
is an ornament to the Navy and one of its trusted men, 
so it is well that his one and only indiscretion did not 
weigh heavily against him. 

From which it would seem that there is a chance 
for all of us, even including myself. 

11 

I cannot remember how many times during the first 
few months of the war we, in conjunction with the 
greater portion of the Grand Fleet, swept and scoured 
the North Sea in the expectation of finding something 
hostile. We were constantly at sea, fair weather or 
foul, rain, hail, or snow, but we seldom had much 
luck. 

Fritz, the German submarine, was constantly with 
us. He enlivened the monotony by laying mines on 
the coastal trade routes off the east coast in the hope 
of bagging merchant ships, and by firing occasional 
torpedoes at us, the nasty fellow! We, in our turn, 
hunted Fritz assiduously, but as he had the power of 


256 


The Sub 


making himself invisible at any moment, the chances 
were always in his favour, and the game resolved it- 
self into a sort of blind-man’s buff with us as the 
blind man. He was up to no end of dodges. Some- 
times, when he wanted a breather, he hoisted a sail 
and disguised himself as a fishing vessel, so that he 
should not be recognised at a distance. Sometimes he 
appeared dressed up as a tramp steamer, with a dummy 
funnel and upperworks. Occasionally,, too, we sighted 
him on the surface at dawn in his proper guise, and 
made full tilt at him in the hope of sinking him by 
ramming or by dropping explosives on his head, but 
he generally dipped under the surface before we got 
there. And then, when once he had disappeared, look- 
ing for him was rather like searching for a three- 
penny piece in the proverbial haystack. Fritz was no 
fool, not by a very long chalk. 

As for the enemy’s big ships, those mastodons of 
the High Sea Fleet into which it was our fervent de- 
sire to slip our torpedoes, we hardly ever saw them 
at all. Brother Bosche, playing his usual game, kept 
his battleships safe in harbour, while indulging every 
now and then in one of those sporadic and rather sense- 
less raids with his battle-cruisers against some “heav- 
ily fortified” town on the east coast of England. The 
bombardments of Yarmouth and Hartlepool were le- 
gitimate enough, but nobody in his wildest moments 
could have called Scarborough or Whitby anything 
but innocent watering places. 

What was the Navy thinking of to allow such go- 
ings on? This was the question hurled angrily at my 


On Bumps and Other Things 257 


head by a portly, rather apoplectic gentleman who 
flourished an evening paper in my face in a crowded, 
first-class railway carriage during a brief period of 
leave. 

“I’ll tell you what the Navy is doing, sir!” chimed 
in my next-door neighbour rather unexpectedly. He 
was a ruddy-complexioned, clean-shaven little man in 
mufti whose face seemed familiar to me. 

“I should be very glad if you would, sir!” snorted 
my attacker contemptuously. 

“It’s keeping that fat paunch of yours taut, sir !” ob- 
served my champion in a very audible whisper and 
without moving a muscle of his face. “You ought to 
thank your lucky stars, sir, that you’ve still the where- 
withal to fill it!” 

There was a titter of amusement throughout the 
carriage, while the abundant one rapidly assumed the 
colour of a beetroot. 

“I’m not here to be insulted by you, sir!” he splut- 
tered at last, glaring like a wild beast. “I’ll have you 
know that I’m . . 

“Softly, sir. Softly !” chided the little man quietly. 
“I have no wish to insult you, provided you in your 
turn do not insult the Service to which this young 
gentleman and myself both have the honour to be- 
long. Permit me to give you my card, sir, and let 
me add that the discussion of naval and military top- 
ics in railway carriages is to be discouraged. In fact, 
I believe the Defence of the Realm Act says it is a 
punishable offence!” 

The portly gentleman collapsed like a punctured 


258 


The Sub 


bicycle tyre and hid his blazing face behind a news- 
paper, for the card he was handed bore the name of 
one of our most distinguished Admirals, a man whose 
history even he must have known, and whose out- 
spokenness was a matter of common knowledge. 
Moreover, most of our other fellow passengers were 
military officers who, to judge from their grins, sym- 
pathised with us. 

And when at last the train slowed up at the next 
stopping place the disgruntled one, eyeing me viciously 
as if I were the cause of his discomfiture, made prep- 
arations for relieving us of his presence. 

“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said the quiet 
little Admiral very sweetly, as the train came to a 
standstill and the civilian opened the carriage door. 

“Good morning be jiggered, sir!” retorted the well- 
fed gentleman snappishly, hopping out and slamming 
the door behind him. 

“Tut, tut!” murmured the Admiral, his eyes 
twinkling. 

hi 

One afternoon in January, 1915, we had finished 
tea and were all in the wardroom amusing ourselves 
in our usual manner. Outside, it was blowing a howl- 
ing gale of wind from the north-eastward with fre- 
quent blinding flurries of snow and sleet, and even in 
the harbour in which we lay the sea was so heavy that 
the ship tugged and strained at her moorings, and we 
could hold no communication with the shore by boat. 

“Thank the Lord we aren’t at sea!” said No. 1 


On Bumps and Other Things 259 


piously, laying down his book for a moment to poke 
the blazing anthracite stove. 

I quite agreed with him. 

The Chief, puffing clouds of evil-smelling ship’s to- 
bacco from his inevitable pipe and muttering fiercely 
to himself, was busy with a jigsaw puzzle amongst the 
litter of tea-things on the table. No. 1 and myself 
were trying to read, while the “Doctor” — an ex-med- 
ical student who had joined us about a month ago as 
a Surgeon-Probationer R.N.V.R. — was playing “De- 
mon” patience. 

But as luck would have it the skipper, a day or two 
before, had received a large parcel of books, games, 
and musical instruments for the “dear sailors” from 
one of his many female admirers. And amongst the 
consignment, much to our grief, had been a set of toy 
bagpipes. I knew what would happen the moment I 
clapped eyes on them. The skipper promptly im- 
pounded them for his own use, and, forsaking his 
penny-whistle, spent many dismal hours practising in 
his cabin with his new toy. And now, sitting cross- 
legged in an armchair, he was giving us a spirited 
rendering of what he said was “The Bluebells of Scot- 
land.” It sounded more like ragtime to me, and the 
noise was atrocious. I could hardly hear the howling 
of the wind. 

“What does it sound like?” the player suddenly 
asked the Chief, pausing a moment with his head 
cocked on one side. 

“Sound like!” snorted the engineer officer, who 
had been stopping each of his ears alternately. 


26 o 


The Sub 


“Sounds to me like a pig being slaughtered !” The 
Chief never minced matters. He always said exactly 
what he thought. 

“You ought to get hold of a Scotsman to play the 
beastly things!” he added. 

The skipper laughed. “Come, come, Chief! My 
grandmother was half Scotch and quite a lot of my 
relations. . . . Hullo!” he broke off, as we heard the 
sound of hasty footsteps on the thin deck overhead. 
“Someone’s in a deuce of a hurry!” 

The ladder clattered as a man descended, and the 
door was flung open to admit an icy blast and a red- 
faced, sou’westered signalman. 

“Signal just come through, sir,” he said hastily, with 
the melting snow running in streams off his oilskins. 
“Raise steam with the utmost despatch and report 
when ready to proceed.” 

The skipper sighed. “I thought as much. How 
long will you be, Chief ?” 

“Forty minutes at the outside. Half an hour if 
we’re lucky,” said Prettyman, seizing his cap and mak- 
ing for the door. 

The Captain yawned, uncoiled himself from his 
chair, and walked to the scuttle to look at the weather. 
“Lord !” he observed dismally. “There’s no peace for 
the wicked, and I did so hope for a quiet night. We’re 
going to have the time of our lives outside, my bonny 
boys!” he added. “You’ll all be as sick as hades, and 
look out you have everything on the upper deck well 
lashed, Number One. You’d better be ready for slip- 
ping in half an hour from now.” 


On Bumps and Other Things 261 

He evinced no particular excitement, for ever since 
the outbreak of war we had always had steam ready 
at short notice when we were lying in harbour. 
Moveover, we had long since become accustomed to 
sudden excursions to sea at all hours of the day and 
night, so this was nothing out of the ordinary. 

“D’you think anything special’s in the wind, sir?” 
the 1st Lieutenant wanted to know, hunting for his 
cap. 

“Same old stunt, I expect,” answered the skipper. 
“Forty-eight hours at sea in stinking weather, and then 
back to harbour with the bridge knocked flat. Come 
on, young fellows, you’d better get a move on and 
get into your sea suitings.” 

Three-quarters of an hour later, in company with 
several light-cruisers and many destroyers, we were 
groping our way out of harbour. The short winter 
afternoon had drawn to a close and the night had 
come down pitch-dark with no moon. The sky over- 
head was obliterated in dense masses of dark cloud 
scurrying down from the northward on the wings of 
the gale, and the wind howled and shrieked across 
the water, bringing in its train occasional blinding 
flurries of snow and showers of sleet and rain, while 
on deck, too, except in the places where the heat of 
the engine and boiler-rooms had melted it, there was 
a thin layer of ice. It was bitterly cold, and wrapped 
up though I was in a thick lammy coat, many woollen 
mufflers, thick fisherman’s stockings reaching to my 
thighs, leather sea-boots, and oilskins on top of every- 
thing, the piercing blast sought out the chinks in my 


262 


The Sub 


armour and chilled me through to the very marrow. 
It was a perfectly beastly night. 

Before long we had passed the bobbing buoys at the 
harbour entrance and were forming up into our divi- 
sions outside. 

“Signal for twenty knots, sir!” shouted the signal- 
man, as some ship far ahead in the darkness started 
to talk on a dimmed flashing lamp and we slid in 
astern of our leader. 

“Show no lights at all, sir!” a little later. “Signal 
for twenty-three knots, sir! Course north fifty-two 
east.” 

The movement gradually became more and more 
pronounced as we left the lee of the friendly sand- 
banks and found the full force of the gale. The ship 
started to bob and curtsy, and the first whiff of spray 
came flying over the bows to rattle against the canvas 
bridge-screens like a shower of pebbles. Then, as we 
got further afield, the bows began to rise and fall diz- 
zily, and with a crash and a thump the first sea came 
thundering over the bows, swished knee-deep across 
the forecastle, and erupted against the charthouse with 
a jar which shook the whole bridge. 

“Now she feels it!” muttered the Captain, wiping 
the spray from his eyes and readjusting the collar of 
his oilskin. “Who wouldn’t sell a farm and join the 
Royal Navy!” 

Who would not, indeed? Being at sea on a night 
like this was certainly an overrated amusement. The 
North Sea was far more crimson an ocean than any 
atlas would have us believe. 


On Bumps and Other Things 263 


I was due to keep the morning watch the next day, 
and at eight o’clock, on being relieved by No. 1, I left 
the bridge, made a perilous journey aft along the sea- 
swept deck, and dived down to the wardroom flat with 
the intention of getting some food before I turned in. 
But the sickening corkscrew motion and the nauseat- 
ing aroma down below completely overcame me. 

I looked into the pantry where one of our stewards, 
gasping like a fish out of water, lay mournfully on the 
lockers. His mate reclined on the deck amidst a lit- 
ter of broken china and glass, some spoons, knives, 
and forks, and an unsavoury mess in which I noticed 
a ham, half a cheese, several loaves of bread and pats 
of butter, a broken bottle of piccalilli, and a pair of 
boots cavorting gaily to and fro in a pool of dirty sea 
water every time the ship rolled. Each time the stern 
lifted to the sea and shook itself like a dog something 
fresh was added to the noisome collection. First a 
jar of blacking, which fell with a crash and exploded 
like a shrapnel. Then a shower of plate powder from 
some out-of-the-way corner, closely followed by an 
avalanche of plates and half an entree dish. The poor 
wretch on the floor paid no heed whatsoever to his mer- 
ciless bombardment from aloft. He was long past 
caring. ... I tottered into the wardroom. 

And there, except for the absence of the food, things 
were very little better. A considerable quantity of 
sea water was slopping about the floor, and chairs, 
books, the coal scuttle, the doctor’s instruments, jig- 
saw puzzles, and the skipper’s bagpipes were playing a 
furious game of touch-last. The doctor, very white 


264 


The Sub 


about the gills and hanging on like grim death, lay 
stretched out on one settee breathing stertorously. He 
opened one eye as I entered, regarded me mournfully, 
groaned, and then closed it again. He also did not 
care whether it was Christmas or Easter, and I, too, 
was rapidly approaching the same condition. The very 
thought of food was repugnant; but perhaps you have 
experienced the pangs of mal de mer, so I will spare 
your feelings. 

I left the wardroom hastily, clambered painfully on 
deck, paused a moment, and then, accompanied by the 
fag end of a sea, fell down my hatch to my cabin. 

Here, too, was a scene of utter desolation. The 
heavy rolling had flung open all my drawers, so that 
my uniform, shirts, under-clothes, socks, boots, and 
most of my other belongings were swishing to and fro 
across the floor in a puddle of water. But I was long 
past caring for little things like that. I merely wished 
to die as painlessly as possible, so flung myself into 
my bunk, wedged myself as best I could, and lay there 
listening to the seas as they crashed and pounded over- 
head and against the side of the ship within a foot of 
my head. But at last, by some merciful dispensation 
of Providence, I managed to get off to sleep. 

At four o’clock the next morning, when I went for- 
ward to relieve Mr. Cotter for the morning watch, it 
still blew moderately hard and was bitterly cold. The 
ship was frisking about like a skittish pony, but the sea 
had gone down, the glass was rising, and my agonised 
feelings of the night before had quite left me. And 
on my way to the bridge I looked into the charthouse 


On Bumps and Other Things 265 


for a moment to see our whereabouts on the chart, 
and there I found the skipper, muffled up to the eyes, 
sitting on the settee munching stolidly at a huge ship’s 
biscuit and drinking cocoa from a vacuum flask. 

I sometimes wondered how the Captain ever suc- 
ceeded in getting enough sleep. It was all very well 
for the rest of us, for No. 1, Mr. Cotter, and myself 
kept a regular three watches, four hours on and eight 
off, and in our spells below, even though we could not 
take off our clothes and get into pyjamas, we could 
retire to our bunks without much likelihood of being 
disturbed. 

But with the skipper it was different. He was at 
everybody’s beck and call, and what with the signals 
coming through, the actual navigation of the ship, the 
changes in formation which were constantly taking 
place when we were working as a flotilla, not to men- 
tion the hundred and one unexpected things which al- 
ways happened when we least expected them, he rarely 
got more than an hour’s consecutive sleep at sea, and 
then only on the settee in the charthouse. Moreover, 
and as I said before, he slept with one eye open, and 
always appeared on the bridge without being called 
when things were starting to go wrong. This, per- 
haps, may have been due to the fact that both the helm 
and the revolution telegraph shafting passed through 
the charthouse, and the moment the wheel started to 
move agitatedly to starboard or to port, or the tele- 
graph reply-gong began to clang incessantly as the 
people in the engine-room acknowledged frequent al- 
terations in speed, the noise woke him up and brought 


266 


The Sub 


him to the bridge in the twinkling of an eye to find 
out what was going on. He realised as well as we 
officers of watches did that frequent movements of 
the helm and continual alterations in the revolutions 
meant that something was going wrong, or that the 
ship was out of station. 

The skipper rarely went below except to snatch an 
occasional meal in the wardroom or a hasty wash in 
his cabin. At one time, in the earlier days of the 
war, he used to disappear below every morning to 
bath and shave himself, but ever since the day when 
No. i had suddenly sighted a Zeppelin emerging from 
the clouds, and the Captain had appeared on the bridge 
in a bright green dressing gown with half his face 
shaved and the other half lathered, he had taken up 
savings 1 for immaculate cleanliness. 

And now, at four o’clock in the morning, he was 
affability itself. “Mornin’,” he said, smiling at me 
with his red face appearing over his many mufflers 
like a full moon rising from the sea. “Have some of 
this and a biscuit, Sub? I’ll bet you had no dinner 
last night!” He held out his flask. 

“I didn’t, sir,” I agreed, thanking him and looking 
round for a cup. 

“Drink it out of the spout, man,” he yawned, light- 

1 “Savings” are the money allowances payable in lieu of 
certain items in the daily ration supplied by the Government. 
To “take up savings” means drawing this money, and, as a 
naval colloquialism, to go without, or not to do, a thing. For 
instance, one may hear the expression, “I will take up sav- 
ings for going ashore to-day,” meaning “I will not go 
ashore.” 


On Bumps and Other Things 267 

— 

ing his pipe. “Don’t be bashful. Surely you don’t 
mean you were seasick?” 

I nodded at him as I gulped the hot cocoa. 

“Poor fellow! Thank the Lord I’m not smitten 
that way. By George!” he added, rubbing his eyes. 
“I haven’t had a wink o’ sleep all night, and was 
pitched off the settee twice. Then all your beastly 
books came tumbling down on my head!” 

He pointed to the litter of Sailing Directions and 
other navigational tomes which rightly belonged to the 
bookshelf overhead, but now lay strewn on the deck 
with their coloured linen covers gradually becoming 
detached by the sea water which invaded the chart- 
house in bad weather. 

“Well,” he continued, “I think I’ll try for a caulk 
now. Look out you call me at crack o’ dawn.” He 
composed himself to slumber with the pipe still be- 
tween his teeth, while I went on to the bridge and 
took over from Mr. Cotter. 

My vigil passed slowly, and at about 6.15 the first 
grey streaks of dawn started to come out of the east. 
The old North Sea still looked the same as ever, a 
pitiless grey-green expanse of heaving, wind-ridden 
water with a dull, cloudy grey sky lightening towards 
the horizon to a peculiar misty yellow covered with 
innumerable rounded greyish-white masses of watery- 
looking vapour. But the weather, for the time of 
year, was comparatively clear ? while the wind was 
lulling appreciably and the sea was going down, and 
as I inhaled the clean, salty tang of the morning 
breeze I felt glad to be alive. There is always some- 


268 


The Sub 


thing rather heartening and fascinating about the ad- 
vent of another day at sea, even though it may be the 
North Sea in mid-winter. One’s spirits seem to rise 
automatically with the coming of the dawn; the cares 
and troubles of the night to disappear with the arrival 
of daylight. 

The ship woke up. Those of the men who had 
been asleep on their stuffy mess-decks underneath the 
forecastle came out into the fresh air, stretched them- 
selves, gazed round about, and lit their pipes and 
cigarettes. “Tibby,” our sedate black cat, emerged 
from her nocturnal lair and stalked majestically along 
the deck with her tail erect in the air like an ensign 
staff, while a tousled-looking gentleman in a lammy 
coat, one of our funny men, informed us all in a 
raucous bellow that he had “plaiced a wreath upon 
’er graive as a token of esteem.” Who his defunct 
lady friend was I did not trouble to enquire. 

Next the atmosphere became redolent with the usual 
morning aroma of canteen kippers cooking for some- 
body’s breakfast. Our men, bless their simple souls, 
were always hearty eaters. They seemed to live upon 
kippers for breakfast, onions for their midday dinner, 
and fried eggs and bacon for their tea. In fact, were 
one to be blindfolded, one could almost tell the time 
of day by the pungent odours arising from the galley. 

And so the day had come. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The Dogger Bank 

S UNDAY, January 24th, 1915, was destined to 
be a red-letter day in our calendar, for a few 
minutes past seven, when the sea was yet veiled 
in the grey half-light which comes between dawn and 
full daylight, the Aurora , one of our light-cruisers, 
suddenly fired a gun. Then another, and another . . . 
a whole salvo. 

“Christians awake!” exclaimed the skipper, quoting 
from one of his favourite hymns. “What the deuce 
is she firing at?” 

We hadn’t very long to wait, for almost at once a 
number of shell splashes broke out of the water close 
alongside the Aurora , and a minute or so afterwards, 
when she steamed ahead and permitted us to see a 
certain section of the horizon, we saw, about 8,000 
yards off, the slim grey shape of a two-masted, three- 
funnelled cruiser steaming on a northerly course un- 
der the lee of her own smoke. Several destroyers 
were with her. 

At first I could have staked my bottom dollar that, 
with her three perpendicular funnels, the stranger was 
one of our “County class” cruisers. Indeed, I said as 
much to the Captain. 


269 


270 


The Sub 


“Rot!” he replied, looking through his glasses. 
“She’s a Hun!” 

And so, indeed, she was, the Kolberg. 

Our men, hearing the sounds of gunfire, came 
swarming up to their action stations like bees from a 
hive, and for some time the two ships continued to 
fire at each other. We saw one or two shells burst 
as they hit the enemy, but the Aurora , though she 
was frequently straddled, did not seem to be struck 
at all. At any rate, she showed no signs of any dam- 
age. The German was evidently getting more than 
he had bargained for, for at about 7.20 he suddenly 
turned off to the south-eastward and made off at high 
speed. And almost at once, looming up over the hori- 
zon in the same direction, we made out the dull out- 
lines of four heavy ships together with a number 
of light-cruisers and a flotilla of destroyers. 

“Those are their battle-cruisers!” the skipper ex- 
claimed, rubbing his hands. “Now we’re going to 
have some fun!” 

It certainly did seem like it, for all through the 
night, though we knew nothing for certain, we had 
an inkling that we were steaming to the northward to 
rendezvous with our own battle-cruisers at dawn. And 
when, soon after seven, the Aurora fired the first gun 
and our telegraphist told us she was reporting “Enemy 
in sight” by wireless, and that her signals were being 
acknowledged from somewhere near at hand, we were 
practically certain that Sir David Beatty and his squad- 
ron were not very far away. 

And the Germans, steaming hard to the north- 


The Dogger Bank 


271 


westward, were advancing into the very jaws of our 
battle-cruisers coming down at full speed towards 
them. Sir David Beatty’s squadron was invisible to us 
at this time, but, as subsequent events proved, it can- 
not have been more than ten or fifteen miles away. 

It was an exciting moment for us. None of us 
had ever seen an action between big ships, indeed, 
nobody had, and now, if our luck held, there was 
every prospect of the most thrilling drama we had 
ever witnessed being enacted before our very eyes. 
We had one of the best seats in the house for seeing 
what went on, and it felt rather like sitting in the 
stalls of a theatre waiting for the curtain to rise. We 
held our breath and waited. 

Then, to our intense mortification, the leading en- 
emy ship, scenting trouble, turned away in the opposite 
direction to that in which she had been steaming. A 
chorus of groans came from the little crowd of men 
clustered on the upper deck, for they, too, seemed to 
understand what was happening. 

“Oh, singe my wig and whiskers!” muttered the 
Captain disgustedly, stamping his foot in his annoy- 
ance. “Suffering Susan! I’m shot if the blighters 
aren’t off!” 

They were, for the second vessel followed round 
in the wake of her leader, then the third, and the 
fourth, until at last the whole bunch of them, with 
their cruisers and destroyers, had turned away to the 
south-east. But it was not a dignified retreat, for all 
that people may say. They were going hell-for-leather 
with great clouds and volumes of smoke staining the 


272 


The Sub 


grey sky all round them. They were still in forma- 
tion, but otherwise it looked suspiciously like a case 
of sauve qui pent. 

Then, to the northward, we saw first some more 
British light-cruisers, and finally our battle-cruisers — 
the Lion, Tiger, Princess Royal, New Zealand, and 
Indomitable — coming towards us and literally oblit- 
erating the horizon with their huge grey hulls. 

'‘Ah!” we thought to ourselves as we grinned at 
each other. “This begins to look good!” 

It did, and personally I felt so exhilarated at the 
sight of our big fellows that I wanted to shout and 
fling my cap into the air. 

We destroyers, meanwhile, with our attendant light- 
cruisers, had swung round after the retreating enemy 
and were going full pelt after them to shadow their 
progress and report their movements. By this time 
they had dwindled to a dull, smoky smudge on the 
grey horizon, and now most of our interest became 
concentrated on our heavy squadron, the ships of 
which, steaming hard, seemed literally to be flying 
through the water. It was a magnificent sight to see 
these grey monsters crashing through the seas with 
the smoke billowing behind them, and the long, lean 
guns in their turrets cocked up to full elevation ready 
to open fire as soon as they came within range. They 
looked so grim and so powerful, so utterly huge and 
unwieldy, that it was difficult to realise that they were 
controlled by mere human beings like ourselves. 

But we were all feeling anxious lest they should 
not be able to get within effective range of the flying 


The Dogger Bank 


273 


foe. Ship for ship the British superiority in speed 
was not so very marked, and the opposing squadrons 
were fully 28,000 yards, or fourteen sea miles, apart 
when the chase started. 

The skipper, No. 1, and myself were all on the 
bridge watching. We were all thinking the same 
thing, and hardly dared to speak to each other, for 
the suspense was well-nigh intolerable. 

“Buck up, you big chaps !” I heard the skipper mut- 
tering impatiently to himself. “For mercy’s sake 
buck up and let ’em have it!” 

But I don’t think the “big chaps” required much 
encouragement. They were nerving every effort, and 
were every bit as anxious for the ball to open as we 
were. 

“I believe they’re overhauling them, sir!” said No. 
1 after a bit, biting his nails in his excitement. “Yes, 
I’ll swear they are !” 

“Overhauling my foot!” snapped the skipper dis- 
gustedly. 

“But they are, sir!” the First Lieutenant persisted. 
“We’re exactly the same distance from the Lion as we 
were a quarter of an hour ago, but I can see their rear 
ship’s upper deck showing over the horizon. I couldn’t 
a few minutes ago!” 

He pointed to the south-east, where the hulls of the 
hostile heavy ships certainly seemed to be rising slowly 
over the line of demarcation betwixt sea and sky, 
becoming gradually, very gradually, more distinct. 

And even the skipper had grudgingly to admit that 
we were gaining. 


274 


The Sub 


‘‘It's going to be a long job, at any rate,” he growled 
at last.., “A stern chase, and you know the rest. You 
can fall the hands out, No. i, and let 'em finish their 
breakfast. You and the Sub had better go below 
and have yours. You might tell the steward to send 
mine to the charthouse when you’ve finished, and tell 
the blighter that if he sends me any more of his hard- 
boiled eggs I’ll have him incinerated!” 

So breakfast was piped, though I doubt if more 
than five or six of the men made a regular sit-down 
meal. They were much too interested in what was 
going on, and the greater number ate their kippers and 
demolished their slabs of bread and margarine on 
deck where they could see everything. No. i and 
myself, too, though we were both hungry, were far 
too excited to think really seriously of food, and in 
less than ten minutes we were back on the bridge. 

And now I saw that even in the short time we had 
been below we had undoubtedly overhauled them 
slightly, for half the hull of their rearmost ship could 
be seen over the horizon. It seemed too good to be 
true. Once more I could have shouted for joy. 

The battle-cruisers, with our light-cruisers and flo- 
tillas on their quarter, settled down to their long stern 
chase. The speed gradually increased until eventually 
we were steaming at 28^ knots, with the Lion , Tiger , 
and Princess Royal in the van, and the more elderly 
New Zealand and Indomitable pounding along in their 
wake. 

Sir David Beatty, in his official despatch, com- 
mended the engine-room personnel of these two latter 


The Dogger Bank 


275 


ships, and certainly they deserved his- praise, for both 
vessels exceeded their contract speed. But never yet 
have I known an occasion when the officers and men 
below did not look upon it as a point of honour to 
bring their ships into action in record time. Time 
and time again during this war ships which were 
regarded as slow and more or less out of date have 
surpassed themselves in steaming and have actually 
bettered their trial speeds in action, and whatever hap- 
pens we people on deck know that our friends down 
below in the engine and boiler-rooms will never fail. 
Indeed, when they are aware that there is a prospect 
of meeting an enemy they work wonders; but when 
the enemy appears and the first gun goes off they 
generally achieve the impossible, splendid fellows that 
they are. 

We were overhauling the Germans slowly but 
surely. The range diminished from 28,000 yards to 
20,000, and shortly before nine o'clock we noticed the 
Tiger and Princess Royal hauling out on a line of 
bearing from the flagship to bring their foremost tur- 
ret guns to bear. This was necessary as the enemy 
were slightly on their bow, and, if our ships had re- 
mained in single line ahead, the fire of each vessel 
would have been blanketed by her leader. 

The German heavy ships were steaming in single 
line with their light-cruisers ahead and the destroyers 
to starboard, and at this time, 8.52 to be precise, we 
saw a flash and a cloud of dun-coloured smoke burst 
out from the Lion's fore turret as one of her 13’5's 
gave tongue. The deep boom of the report came rever- 


276 


The Sub 


berating across the sea, and we waited for what seemed 
ages to see the shell pitch. Then at last a gigantic 
white pillar of water sailed gracefully into the air 
some distance short of the enemy. It was merely a 
trial shot, but it acted as a tonic on us, for we knew 
that our long period of suspense was nearly over. 

Another flash and burst of smoke from the Lion, 
and this time the projectile went closer to its mark. 
Another shot, closer again. The flagship was firing 
slowly and deliberately to find the exact range, and 
then at last, at about ten minutes past nine, a gun 
fired and there was no splash at all; but in its stead 
a flicker of deep red flame and a small cloud of black 
smoke from the last ship in the hostile line, the ill- 
fated Bliicher. 

“Hit!” howled our skipper, nearly dancing with 
excitement. 

It was a hit, but the spectacular effect of a 135- 
inch shell striking at long range was distinctly disap- 
pointing. I quite expected to see a bright crimson 
flash and belching clouds of smoke and debris, but all 
we noticed was that insignificant little spurt of brick- 
red flame and a scarcely distinguishable puff of smoke 
which soon vanished. But even so I could well pic- 
ture the awful havoc caused by that projectile. Imag- 
ine nearly a ton of metal filled with high-explosive 
dropping almost perpendicularly on a ship’s deck. It 
tears its way through the steel plating as if it were 
brown paper, and, penetrating far below, bursts and 
spreads death and destruction everywhere. The effect 
is well-nigh indescribable, and at sea a plunging, long- 


The Dogger Bank 


277 


range fire searches out the very heart of a vessel and 
must always be far more deadly than that at a shorter 
distance where the trajectory is flatter and the projec- 
tiles have more of a sweeping effect. 

The range was gradually closing as our superiority 
in speed made itself manifest, and very soon after- 
wards all three of our leading battle-cruisers chimed 
in. And at much the same moment the enemy also 
opened fire. 

It was a wonderful and an awe-inspiring spectacle 
to see our huge ships speeding along with their heavy 
guns flashing and their ponderous hulls occasionally 
shrouded and indistinct in their own black funnel 
smoke and the rapidly dissolving brown cordite haze 
of their gun discharges. All the while the tall white 
plumes of spray played and leapt round about them 
as the German guns fell to work, though, from what 
I could see of their shooting, it was nothing very 
wonderful. Indeed, I don’t recollect seeing one of 
our ships hit during this period of the fight. 

By half-past nine the last two vessels in the enemy’s 
line were having, or had had, a very bad time. The 
Lion , which had started by firing at the Bliicher, had 
transferred her unwelcome attention to the third ship, 
the battle-cruiser Seydlitz , and had hit her with several 
salvos, while No. 4, the Bliicher, was under the con- 
centrated fire of the Tiger, Princess Royal, and New 
Zealand, which had now come up. 

It is unnecessary for me to describe how the ships 
of our squadron shifted their targets as the range 
gradually lessened and ship after ship of the enemy 


278 


The Sub 


was engaged, but by 9.45 the action had become more 
or less general and each heavy unit of the German 
squadron was under fire. The Bliicher, too, was obvi- 
ously in a bad way, for now and then her hull was 
all but obscured in a cloud of reddish-brown smoke, 
while through our glasses we could see occasional 
tongues of flame playing about her upperworks. Her 
speed, also, seemed to have decreased, for she lagged 
rather behind the others. 

It was now that the Captain, the First Lieutenant, 
and myself, who were all on the bridge, suddenly no- 
ticed a great mushroom-shaped cloud of blackish 
smoke leap into the air at the far side of the enemy’s 
line. It hung there for quite an appreciable time, 
dense and impalpable, and was evidently caused by a 
very heavy explosion, though at the time the distance 
was so great that we could see nothing to account 
for it. It was not until some time later that we heard 
a story to the effect that the light-cruiser Kolberg had 
literally been blown in two by some of our shell falling 
over, but even now I don’t know whether or not the 
yarn is true. % 

The enemy were now getting very much the worst 
of it. The Moltke, the second ship in their line, had 
been badly pounded, and from now on, the sole idea 
of the German Admiral — Von Hipper — seemed to be 
to make good his escape. Just before ten o’clock, 
moreover, the hostile destroyers, in a vain endeavour 
to save their heavy ships from further punishment, 
came down from ahead at full speed, making a heavy 
cloud of dense black funnel smoke, under cover of 


The Dogger Bank 


279 


which the German main body steamed for a short 
time to the northward. Having done this, their de- 
stroyers then came on towards us with the evident 
intention of delivering a torpedo attack, whereupon 
we, the British T.B.D.’s, were ordered to take station 
ahead of our battle-cruisers to drive them off. But 
we never had the chance we all hoped and prayed for, 
for long before we got anywhere near them they had 
been compelled to retire by a burst of heavy fire from 
the Lion and Tiger. 

The engagement went on, and at 10.45 the Bliicher, 
who had borne the brunt of the action and had dropped 
farther and farther astern of her consorts, suddenly 
swerved abruptly to port and struggled off to the 
northwards. 

It was one of the most dramatic incidents of an 
eventful day, but none of us felt inclined to show our 
elation. It is always a sad sight to see a stricken 
ship at her last gasp, even though she may be an en- 
emy, and the Captain, I know, felt exactly as I did. 
I was desperately sorry for the poor wretches on 
board her, for she had undergone a ghastly fire which 
had converted the interior of her hull into a blazing 
inferno and a hideous charnel house of mangled dead 
and dying and riven steel. It is impossible to imagine 
what it must have been like, let alone to describe it. 

When first the British guns started firing, the 
Bluchers crew, said one of her survivors, watched 
the deadly waterspouts creeping closer and closer with 
an awful fascination. The shell dropped ahead and 
over, astern and short as the range was found, until 


28 o 


The Sub 


one pitched so close alongside the ship that its vast 
watery pillar fell on deck. Almost immediately pro- 
jectiles started to arrive thick and fast. The ship’s 
dynamos were destroyed at once, and the ship was 
plunged into darkness. Shell, falling from the sky, 
tore their way through the decks and penetrated even 
to the stokeholds before bursting, while the coal in 
the bunkers was hurled about and set alight. In the 
engine-room bursting projectiles scattered blazing oil 
in flames of blue and green. Men were burnt to 
death ; men were blinded, scalded, and mutilated, while 
others huddled together in dark compartments for 
safety. But even here the flying projectiles sought 
them out and tore them limb from limb, and lucky 
indeed were the poor wretches who perished outright. 
It was a holocaust. 

The air pressure caused by the heavy explosions in 
confined spaces flung loose and insecure fittings to and 
fro and converted them into fresh and dangerous 
projectiles. Heavy steel watertight doors were 
wrenched off their hinges and bent, and through the 
inferno the bodies of the living and the dead were 
hurled from side to side like leaves in an autumn 
gale. Some were battered to death against steel bulk- 
heads, others were flung to a more ghastly fate amidst 
the whirling machinery. . . . But the Bliicher still 
fought gallantly on, until at last the very stokers had 
to be told off to supply the ammunition to her guns. 

She was not a battle-cruiser like the rest of her 
squadron. She was merely a slower and less powerful 
armoured-cruiser of an older type, a ship which was 


The Dogger Bank 


281 


temporarily taking the place of the Von der Tann, 
which had been damaged during a British air raid on 
Cuxhaven. And now, battered out of recognition, 
with a heavy list, and the smoke and flame pouring 
from her, she was reeling helplessly about like a 
blind man, while her friends had gone on and left 
her to her fate. No. It was not a glorious or inspir- 
iting spectacle. To me it was intensely pathetic — but 
war is ever pathetic. 

Ship after ship fired on the unhappy German. Even 
some of the destroyers peppered her with their little 
4-inch guns as they came within range. And this 
time the spectacle certainly was more thrilling, for we 
were closer and could see the shell driving home and 
bursting in splashes of vivid orange and scarlet flame 
and clouds of yellow and black smoke. The unfor- 
tunate ship rocked like a cradle as the broadsides 
struck her. She blazed furiously, and a layer of dense 
smoke, glowing on its under side from the glare of 
many fires, hung over her like a funeral pall. But, 
beaten and battered though she was, she would never 
surrender, and through the haze which enveloped her 
we could see the flashes of some of her guns as they 
still fired intermittently. And they went on firing 
to the bitter end. Her steering gear was demolished 
and her engines were damaged, but she still strug- 
gled slowly on. One funnel had disappeared, and the 
other two were riddled through and through and tot- 
tering. The fore turret, hit fair and square by a heavy 
shell, had been whirled bodily overboard like a sheet of 
paper. Part of her mainmast was still standing up- 


282 


The Sub 


right, but the tripod foremast, brought down by an 
explosion at its base, leaned drunkenly over on its 
side. 

The ship was sinking on an even keel, but one of 
her guns still fired an occasional shell. Indeed, it was 
not until five minutes past noon that her last weapon 
was discharged at the British destroyer Meteor , which 
had approached to finish her off with a torpedo at 
close range. The 8-2-inch shell, striking the destroyer 
in one of her boiler-rooms, killed four men and 
wounded another, besides doing great damage. 

Two minutes later, however, the Meteor fired her 
torpedo. It struck the Bliicher nearly amidships and 
burst with a thundering shock and a great upheaval 
of smoke and whity-grey water. It brought the 
stricken ship to a standstill, and then, very slowly, she 
heeled over to port and lay wearily down to die. We 
were barely 300 yards off when it happened, and I 
shall never forget the awful sight. 

Orders had evidently been given for her men to save 
themselves, for the deck on our side was black with 
human beings, and as she went over there came that 
horrible, pitiable drawn-out cry which so often seems 
to break out from the survivors before a ship takes 
her final plunge. It was the blending of many voices 
into one awful moaning in a rising crescendo; a ter- 
rible, eerie sound like the wailing of a banshee, which 
I can only write as “Aaah ...0...0...O... 
O! Ah ...0...0...0...O... OOH!” 

The Arethusa, and several other destroyers, had 
come up, and we were all lowering boats to save life, 


The Dogger Bank 


283 


and presently, when the Bliicher heeled over and over, 
numbers of her men could be seen walking on her 
starboard side as it gradually became horizontal. 
Others, casting themselves into the icy sea, were swim- 
ming towards us and the rescuing boats, while still 
more slid down the curve of the bottom and walked 
on the bilge-keel before trusting themselves to the 
water. I witnessed many horrible sights. One poor 
wretch, trying to jump clear, landed with his head 
on the bilge-keel with a crash which must have frac- 
tured his skull. Others, swimming towards the boats, 
were crying “Save, Englishman! Save!” while more, 
dazed and badly wounded, flung up their hands and 
sank the moment they jumped into the sea. A few 
reached the side of our ship, whereupon we flung them 
lifebelts and lowered rope ends to help them to clam- 
ber on board, but many, overcome and exhausted by 
their wounds and the bitterly cold water, slipped away 
and perished. 

One hundred and twenty-three men were saved 
altogether, and there is no doubt that many more 
would have been picked up had not a Zeppelin and an 
aeroplane appeared on the scene. The latter dropped 
bombs, whereupon we had no alternative but to hoist 
our boats and retire. The Taube, no doubt, imagined 
the Bliicher to be one of our ships, which naturally 
made us all the more unwilling to risk our ships and 
lives in saving the compatriots of men who imagined 
they were killing drowning British seamen. I would 
willingly have shot the pilot of that Taube in cold 
blood, and it was probably his report which gave rise 


284 


The Sub 


to the statement in the official German communique 
that the Lion had been sunk. 

And so, forced to leave many poor wretches in the 
water to their fate, we steamed away, and the last 
time I saw the Bliicher the curve of her bottom was 
just disappearing beneath the surface, and a thin cloud 
of black smoke and white steam hung in the air over 
the spot where she had turned over. But even we, 
her enemies, were forced to admit that she had made 
a gallant fight. 

To hark back to the doings of our battle-cruisers, 
which were still in action with the flying DerMinger, 
Moltke , and Seydlitz. 

I did not see the end of the engagement, for we 
had been detailed to close and pick up the survivors 
from the Bliicher , but at 10.54 the periscope of a sub- 
marine was sighted on the starboard bow of the Lion. 
She promptly altered course to avoid a possible tor- 
pedo, and shortly afterwards, at 11.3, was hit by the 
shell which was so to influence the final result of the 
battle. It struck her on the waterline the port side, 
disabled one of her feed-tanks, and forced her to haul 
out of the line, leaving the Tiger, Princess Royal , and 
New Zealand to continue the pursuit. 

The flagship seemed in a very dangerous predica- 
ment, while, as she had a heavy list to port with num- 
bers of men on deck, many people who saw her at 
the time imagined she was about to sink and that her 
crew were making preparations for abandoning ship. 
But things were not quite so bad as that. The signal 
<r Engage the enemy more closely’' still fluttered at 


The Dogger Bank 


285 


her masthead, while the men had mustered on deck 
to cheer Sir David Beatty over the side as he boarded 
the destroyer Attack and steamed off in her to over- 
take the remainder of his squadron. He met them 
at noon steaming to the north-north-west, and hoisted 
his flag on the Princess Royal. It was too late. The 
engagement was over, and that unlucky hit in the 
Lion altered in no small measure the result of the 
engagement. 

When last they were seen vanishing over the east- 
ern horizon all the three German heavy ships had been 
badly damaged by gunfire, while the DerfHinger and 
Seydlitz were on fire. Their injuries, as I was after- 
wards told by a German prisoner whom we picked up 
from an armed trawler, were very severe and their 
losses in men very heavy. He told me, moreover, that 
a great fire had broken out in the after magazine of 
the Seydlitz , and that the conflagration, which threat- 
ened every instant to destroy the ship, could only 
be extinguished by flooding the compartments in ques- 
tion. There was no time even to remove the men, 
over 150 of whom, sealed up below under watertight 
doors and unable to escape, perished miserably by 
drowning. 

The Lion , however, was in an unenviable position. 
Her injury prevented her at first from steaming at 
more than about twelve knots, at which speed she was 
a comparatively easy target for the hostile submarines 
known to be in the vicinity. Every available destroyer 
was at once sent to screen her against this danger, but 
during the afternoon further complications in the 


286 


The Sub 


engine-room necessitated her being taken in tow by 
the Indomitable . 

And for thirty-four hours the helpless leviathan, 
surrounded on all sides by destroyers like a mother 
hen by her brood of chicks, was towed slowly home. 
It was a dismal and anxious progress. We were only 
sixty miles from the hostile bases when we started, 
and all through the hours of daylight we expected a 
submarine attack. During the night, too, we made 
quite certain that every destroyer in the German navy 
would be out to look for us; but they missed their 
opportunity, for nothing came. 

And so the wounded Lion came home, while Ger- 
many, with the Bliicher , and possibly one light-cruiser, 
sunk, and three valuable battle-cruisers severely in- 
jured, licked her wounds and for a time denied herself 
the doubtful pleasure of raiding the British coast. 
The game was not worth the candle. Sir David 
Beatty had taught her a lesson which it took her a 
very long while to forget. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Bitter End 

i 

B ETWEEN four and five o’clock one merry 
April morning I was roused from my slumbers 
by a frenzied hammering on my cabin door and 
the throaty, penetrating voice of my faithful but mis- 
guided servitor, Robert Wilkes, Able Seaman. 

Wilkes, when he was not putting many parallel 
creases down the legs of my best uniform trousers 
with a hot iron, sewing buttons on my pyjama jackets 
with sailmaker’s twine, or polishing the corticene on 
my cabin floor until I could scarcely stand upright, 
ruled me with a rod of steel. He was the most ancient 
A.B. in the ship, a man who had been in the Service 
for many years and should by rights have been a petty 
officer if only he had behaved himself. He regarded 
a mere “Sub-Lootenant” with undisguised contempt, 
and, though never really disrespectful, took charge of 
me absolutely and constituted himself my unofficial 
“sea-daddy.” 

Sometimes he was a most unsympathetic person, 
and his behaviour, unless I bullied him first, positively 
tyrannical. And even when I did succeed in getting 
287 


288 


The Sub 


in the first word he merely stood there grinning like 
a gargoyle, so that slanging him for his misdeeds and 
misdirected efforts on my behalf gave one about as 
much satisfaction as pouring water on the proverbial 
duck’s back. 

“Seasick, are we?” he used to grunt, when, in a 
gale of wind and before I got really accustomed to the 
ship prancing and leaping like a circus horse, he some- 
times found me in a comatose condition on my bunk. 

“Seasick! Lawd ’elp us! Wot’s the Navy cornin’ 
to when Sub-Lootenants carn’t stow their vittles? 
But look ’ere, sir, spose I goes to the wardroom pantry 
and ’as a bit of a forage round like? It ain’t good 
to ’ave nothink inside yer when yer feels like a vomit!” 
He was always inclined to be rather coarse. 

I merely groaned. The very thought of food was 
utterly repulsive ; but as sure as fate ten minutes latef 
Wilkes reappeared with a cup of bovril and a piece 
of dry toast. 

“There!” he would say triumphantly. “Put that 
little lot inside yer!” 

I took his advice, and must confess that the food 
did me good. But even over the matter of my hand- 
kerchiefs he behaved like a miser, and would never 
allow me my usual clean one per diem until I made 
a row about it. 

“Now look ’ere, sir,” he grumbled. “I uses one 
clean ’ankercher a week, and seein’ as ’ow you’re an 
orficer I allows yer two. More’n that’s wastin’ money, 
and you knows as well as I does that we ’aven’t paid 
larst month’s washin’ bill yet !” 


The Bitter End 289 

Nor had we, and it took me a considerable time 
to get my own way in the matter. 

But for all his sins the old demon was as honest 
as the day is long, and I was very fond of him, while 
he, I think, in his own peculiar way, was fond of me. 
On Christmas Day, indeed, he entered my cabin with 
much mystery at some unearthly hour of the morning 
and presented me with a flamboyant card as a gage 
d’ amour from himself and his wife. I have it still, a 
gorgeous thing of celluloid with clasped hands, sprays 
of forget-me-nots, and the words ‘‘True friendship 
never wanes” on the outside. I forget what I had 
given him to evoke this return. I think it was a 
pipe. 

And now, on this particular morning, he indulged in 
his usual tactics to get me out of my bunk. 

“Sub-Lootenant, sir!” he wheezed, hammering away 
at my cabin door. “It’s ’igh time we turned out. 
We’ll be all adrift else!” 

“Oh, go to blazes!” I murmured testily, turning 
over with every intention of going to sleep again. I 
had, you see, been on the bridge until midnight, and 
now, after four and a half hours’ sleep in my clothes 
in an atmosphere solid enough to asphyxiate a mule, 
I was uncommonly fat-headed. 

“Sub-Lootenant, sir!” 

No reply. 

So the old ogre did what he always did. He en- 
tered my cabin noisily, switched on every electric 
light, and then shook me by the elbow until I sat up. 

“Oh, go to . . . ” I began. 


290 


The Sub 


“Wake up and drink this nice little drop o’ ’ot cocoa 
I brought yer,” he interrupted, without paying the 
least attention to what I was saying. “You’ll be adrift 
in another minit. The ’ands ’as bin piped to action 
stations already!” 

I glared at him, speechless with indignation. 

“And a lot you cares for me ’00 wears ’isself to 
skin and bone bringin’ you ’ot cocoa at this time o’ 
the mornin’ !” he snorted. “There isn’t many men 
in this ship as ’ud do it for ten bob a month paid 
irregular the same as I does, and wot gratitoode does 
I git? Not a bloomin’ bit, only why the blazes this, 
and wot the dickens that, and me old enuf to be yer 
farther. Now, Mister Munro, sar, are we goin’ to 
turn out or are we not?” 

And I, taking the line of least resistance, did 
clamber out of my bunk. Moreover, I was grateful 
for the cocoa, and told him so. 

“Ah,” said Wilkes. “That’s the way. Now we’re 
be’avin’ like a proper little gent.” 

With which cryptic utterance he left me. 

On this April morning we — the Lictor , that is — 
with anything up to a score of destroyers, some light- 
cruisers, and a couple of seaplane carriers, were within 
measurable distance of the German coast. We were 
there, of course, not exactly for a change of air or 
scenery, but to annoy Brother Bosche, and the fact 
that we had arrived within ten or twelve miles of one 
of his pet particular islands, a place he was popularly 
supposed to have studded with every imaginable kind 


The Bitter End 


291 


of a gun from a 12 inch downwards, was no great 
novelty. 

It was not the sixth time we had visited the neigh- 
bourhood, nor yet the sixteenth. Sometimes, like an 
impudent street Arab with a booby trap round the 
corner making a long nose at a stout policeman in the 
hope of being chased, we were sent in to entice the 
enemy out to sea, an invitation he never by any chance 
accepted. On occasions, too, we went in to have a 
general look round and to strafe anything in the shape 
of outlying patrols he might have off his £bast, but we 
rarely saw anything except a bloated Zeppelin or an 
aeroplane or two. 

This particular “stunt,” an air-raid on a certain 
place I need not mention, had been attempted four or 
five times before, but always without success. We 
invariably started off from our base with everything 
in our favour — a calm sea, rising barometer, excellent 
weather forecast, and all the rest of it. But no sooner 
had we steamed our 250 or 300 miles and arrived 
somewhere near our destination, than the fates turned 
against us, and the wind raged furiously and the sea 
rose, or the fog came down as thick as any blanket, 
in either of which circumstances our seaplanes could 
not do their business. 

Gales, and that horrible, short, steep sea which 
wetted us through and through and made our little 
ships as comfortable as half -tide rocks, we could en- 
dure with a certain amount of equanimity. We could 
also put up with the northerly gales and their huge, 
yeasty-topped combers coming straight down from the 


292 


The Sub 


Arctic. We were accustomed to ice, snow, and sleet, 
so that sometimes we came into harbour with plugs 
of ice frozen into the bores of the guns and our masts 
and bridges outlined in snow; but fogs we cordially 
detested, and what man who goes down to the sea in 
a ship does not? 

In calm weather in the southern area of the North 
Sea, as anyone who knows that neighbourhood will 
tell you, thick weather sometimes shuts down at a few 
minutes’ notice. It seems to descend from above, for 
at one moment the horizon may be perfectly clear, 
while the next the ship ahead will be blotted out in 
a murk of cotton-wool-like consistency and the mois- 
ture will be dripping off your eyebrows. 

The ordinary mariner who navigates his solitary 
vessel sometimes has a certain amount of sea-room 
when fog comes down. In our case, however, the 
sudden advent of thick weather might catch us “with 
our boots off,” otherwise steaming at fairly high speed 
with anything up to thirty ships in close formation. 
In a few moments no one vessel might be visible to 
any other before they arrived within mutual spitting 
distance. Manoeuvring signals and alterations of 
course had to be transmitted to each unit by wireless 
telegraphy or by sound signals made on the syren, 
either of which methods, if we happened to be off 
the enemy’s coast, advertised our presence far more 
than was desirable. 

All we could do, and did, was to grope our way gin- 
gerly astern of our immediate leader, trusting to luck 
that she was still in touch with her next ahead. Some- 


The Bitter End 


293 


times she was and sometimes she wasn’t, for misad- 
ventures take place even in the best-drilled squadrons 
and flotillas, so that at times ships lost themselves 
and, with their syrens wailing like lost souls, were 
forced to alter course this way and that to avoid col- 
lision. 

I know it is easy enough to be wise after the event 
— to say that this mishap or that would never have 
occurred if “I had been there” and t’other fellow 
hadn’t been quite such a purple fool as to do what he 
actually did. But it is as well to recollect that “t’other 
fellow” is probably just as good at his job as you are, 
possibly much better, while we may quite safely bet 
our last farthing that he didn’t punch a large hole 
in the wardroom of the ship commanded by his best 
friend merely to show his undying affection and re- 
spect. 

It is impossible to frame rules and regulations to 
meet every conceivable emergency, and in a fog, more 
so than at any other time, the unexpected always hap- 
pens. Moreover, difficult though the circumstances 
may have been, blame may be attributable to someone 
if a collision occurs, and he who escapes a Court Mar- 
tial for losing or hazarding his ship and merely suf- 
fers the lesser penalty of incurring “their Lordships’ 
severe displeasure” on a sheet of typewritten foolscap 
is no very popular person for the time being. 

He may even find himself a marked man for life, 
for the Navy is essentially a lurid example of the sur- 
vival of the fittest. Many fall by the wayside, and 
out of a term of, say, sixty cadets who entered at the 


The Sub 


294 

ages of thirteen and fourteen, only about twenty-five 
will ever become Commanders, fifteen Captains, while 
seven or eight at the outside will reach the exalted 
position of Rear-Admiral on the active list. The ver- 
dicts of the Service are seldom unjust or undeserved, 
but the success of a naval officer’s career hangs on the 
proverbial thread from the very moment he reaches 
manhood. A single indiscretion, a solitary error in 
judgment, a slight divergence from the straight and 
rugged path, may possibly mean the ruin of an other- 
wise unblemished career and the fading away into the 
hazy distance of the coveted “brass hat.” 1 I don’t 
say it always does, for some people have such force 
of character that they can live down anything. 

However, to the marked and disappointed man 
there is nothing for it but a sorrowful retreat to shore 
billets followed by eventual retirement on a small pen- 
sion to a white-washed cottage in the country. The 
cottage may be all that a cottage should be. It may 
have a bathroom, h. and c., a pretty flower garden, 
clusters of Crimson Rambler and Dorothy Perkins 
trailing round the porch, a potato patch, a chicken run, 
and a couple of happy pigs grunting in their sty. But 
a ducal mansion, let alone a cottage, can never atone 
for the fact that a few years hence the victim of mis- 
fortune will still be a Lieutenant-Commander (Re- 

1 “Brass hat,” i.e. the uniform cap with gold embroidery on 
the peak worn by Commanders and officers senior to them. 
Promotions to Commander are made entirely by selection, 
and the attainment of this rank is popularly supposed to be 
the turning-point of an officer’s career. 


The Bitter End 


295 


tired), with a possibility of being promoted to Com- 
mander (Retired) at the age of forty or forty-five, 
while some of his contemporaries yet in the Service 
are shipping their fourth stripes as Captains. 

In the career of every N.O. that white-washed cot- 
tage sometimes looms perilously close. We live cheek 
by jowl with it. We regard it from every possible 
aspect, and sometimes, when particularly depressed 
and mouldy at seeing others promoted over our heads, 
we even decide in our minds that, if there is room 
for them and the wherewithal is forthcoming, there 
shall be a grandfather clock in the hall and a dark oak 
dresser laden with blue china in the living-room. 

But personally I would far rather command a bat- 
tleship than be the occupier of the prettiest cottage in 
existence, for there are few battleships, but many cot- 
tages. 

The survival of the fittest. It is the invariable law 
of nature. 


11 

When I arrived on the bridge the dawn was just 
breaking and the weather, though bitterly cold, was 
fine and clear. We were steaming on an easterly 
course in three parallel columns, the cruisers and sea- 
plane-carriers sandwiched in the centre between a line 
of destroyers on either side. 

The skipper, muffled up to the chin and in great 
good humour, was sucking away at his inevitable pipe. 

“Morning, Sub !” he hailed me cheerily. “I really 


296 


The Sub 


do believe we’re going to pull off this bally old stunt 
at last, thank the Lord !” 

I agreed with him, for our enterprise was timed 
to start at 6 o’clock precisely, and now, just before 5, 
the weather seemed perfect for getting the machines 
off the water and for actual flight, there being hardly 
a ripple on the sea or a cloud overhead. 

The horizon to the eastward gradually became over- 
shot with the mysterious, prismatic colouring of the 
sunrise, and then at last the red-hot disc of the great 
orb itself, looming huge and tremendous like some 
overgrown football, sailed off into space over a bank 
of low-lying purplish cloud. Next the sky and sea 
together became suffused with a gentle rosy flush. 

“Evening grey and the morning red,” quoted the 
skipper dubiously. “I don’t quite like the look of it.” 

I said nothing. I had yet a lot to learn about suc- 
cessful weather prophecy in the North Sea. 

“No,” he went on. “I don’t like it. Look at that 
greeny-yellow streak between those clouds, and the 
ragged edge to the cloud itself. That means wind, or 
I’m a Dutchman.” 

“But if the weather remains decent till 9 o’clock 
it’ll give the flying fellows time to do their job and to 
get back again, sir,” I said. “After all, it doesn’t 
matter much if we do have bad weather on the way 
home so long as we’ve pulled it off.” 

The Captain sniffed. 

And certainly, as the time wore on, the wind did not 
seem to increase nor the sea to rise, so that at 5.50 
our senior officer’s ship hoisted the blue and white 


The Bitter End 


297 


striped “Preparative” flag, the hauling down of which 
five minutes later would give the seaplane-carriers the 
signal to haul out of the line to hoist out their ma- 
chines and to start them off on their journey. 

It really seemed as if everything was going well, 
but once more our plans were upset by the unaccount- 
able perversity of the North Sea weather, for a few 
minutes later the horizon was becoming indistinct and 
nebulous in a thin haze. We looked at it, hardly able 
to believe our eyes and hoping against hope that it 
would dissolve as the sun rose and gathered strength, 
but not a bit of it. Patches of mist came drifting 
slowly across the surface of the sea until the shapes 
of ships a mile away were blurred out of all recogni- 
tion, and presently the wreathing eddies seemed mys- 
teriously to unite into a single curtain, until at last 
we could only just discern the dull outline of our next 
ahead. Then, with an inexplicable suddenness like 
the dropping of a window-blind, we were plunged into 
thick fog in which we could see nothing at all except 
the grey impalpable murk all round us. We might 
have been alone on the sea for all the signs there were 
of the others, and in the space of about three min- 
utes we had run out of perfectly clear weather into 
a solid wall of the thickest fog I think I have ever 
seen. 

“That's tom it!” muttered the Captain, nearly 
weeping with vexation. “Blow my whiskers if this 
perishin' North Sea isn't the absolute limit!” 

It was. 

We were steaming at 18 knots to the eastward, 


298 


The Sub 


straight for the German coast in fact, which lay some 
fifteen or twenty miles ahead. Our ships, as I said 
before, were disposed in three columns, and the squad- 
ron, unless we wished presently to find ourselves hard 
and fast ashore on a hostile coast, had somehow to be 
turned 16 points, or 180 degrees, to get their bows 
pointing out to sea again. 

The flagship’s syren started wailing in the longs 
and shorts of the Morse code. 

“Signal for ten knots, sir!” said our signalman, 
as the dismal hooting was taken up by ship after ship. 

“Executive, 1 sir!” a moment later, and the skipper 
stepped to the revolution telegraph and rapidly twirl- 
ed the handle until the pointer stood at 180 revolu- 
tions. 

For a space there was silence, only disturbed by 
the rippling sound of the water as our bows clove 
their way through it, while we gazed out over the 
bridge screens at the flattened, swirling water in the 
wake of our next ahead, all the signs we could see 
of her. 

Then again the flagship’s syren started yelping and 
howling, while the signalman, a hand to his ear, lis- 
tened intently. 

“Signal to alter course leaders together the rest 

1 The “Executive,” i.e. the long blast on a syren, or a long 
dash on the wireless, which, in fog, orders the purport of the 
preceding signal to be carried out. In clear weather at night 
the “executive” is made by a long flash with a signalling 
lamp, while flag signals, except in a few specially important 
cases where they are obeyed as soon as seen, are acted upon 
when the flags are hauled down. 


The Bitter End 


299 


in succession eight points to starboard, sir,” he said 
at last. 

Now consider for a moment what this alteration of 
course means. Place three parallel lines of matches 
on the table with their business ends, representing the 
bows of the ships, pointing directly away from you. 
(Three matches in each line will do to illustrate, 
though we had six ships in the centre line and eight 
destroyers on either side.) 

The direction of advance has to be altered 90 de- 
grees to starboard, that is, to your right, and to pre- 
serve the formation of the squadron the movement 
must be in the nature of a wheel. In other words, 
your centre line of matches must maintain their speed 
and alter gradually to the new course, while the line 
on your right hand, the ships on the side towards 
which the turn is being made, alter at once to the new 
course and have to mark time, so to speak. Con- 
versely, the matches on your left, the vessels on the 
outer wing, must increase speed and alter very grad- 
ually to avoid fouling the others. The Lictor was the 
third ship in this line. 

The manoeuvre looks easy enough on paper, and is 
simple enough when the weather is clear and one can 
see what is going on, but we were doing it blindfold 
in a fog in which one could not see more than a hun- 
dred yards. 

Another prolonged howl from the murk ahead 
warned us that the leaders were about to alter course. 

“Whoow!” in an agonised hoot, as another ship 


300 


The Sub 


informed the world in general that she was altering 
course to starboard. 

“Be careful you steer a steady course, quartermas- 
ter !” the Captain cautioned, keeping his eye glued 
on the wake of the next ahead. “Sub, keep an eye on 
the compass !” 

“Aye, aye, sir.” 

“Whew! Wheew!” suddenly sounded two yelps 
as some ship to starboard and fairly close signified 
her intention of altering course to Port. 

“Oh Suffering Susan!” from the skipper, tapping 
his foot on the bridge. “That bally idiot's gone and 
put her helm the wrong way, confound her! Keep a 
good look-out to star-board!” 

I could share his anxiety. For some reason un- 
known to us at the time, but, as we discovered after- 
wards, to avoid colliding with a neighbour, one of the 
cruisers had been forced to starboard her helm and 
alter course to port, or in the wrong direction. This 
meant she was crossing our bows and cutting through 
our line. 

“There's going to be a pretty pot-mess in a min- 
ute!” growled our boss. “They’re all over. . . .” 
Just as he spoke a shrill “Whip! Whoop! Whoop!” 
from our invisible next ahead told us that she was 
going full speed astern to avoid running into some- 
thing we couldn’t see. 

“Stop both! Slow astern both!” came the next 
orders in quick succession, and even as our syren 
roared out its warning to the ships astern something 


The Bitter End 


3 QI 


vague and shadowy loomed up out of the fog right 
under our bows. 

“Hard-a-starboard ! Full astern port !” ordered the 
skipper. 

I held my breath instinctively and waited for the 
crash, for a collision seemed inevitable. But my fears 
were groundless. The Captain had acted in time, and 
we just shaved past the quarter of the Locksley, our 
next ahead, by a distance which I am prepared to 
swear was no more than fifteen feet. 

“ ’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo !” bellowed a muffled up, enor- 
mously fat seaman on her quarter-deck to someone 
on our forecastle as we slid by. “ ’Ullo, Nosy Par- 
ker! ’Oo arsked you to break fast ?” 

“Shut yer ’ead, you silly old ’ipp-o-pot-a-mus !” 
shouted back our man. “You don’t want no break- 
fuss, any’ow!” 

The remark was apt, and the “hippopotamus,” being 
rather slow in the uptake, scratched his head to think 
of a suitable retort. 

“Lictor!” came a hail from someone on the Lock - 
sley’s shadowy bridge. 

“Hullo!” 

“Sorry to have to go astern, old boy. Couldn’t 
bloomin’ well help it. Some craft with no manners 
has just steamed across my bows between me and old 
Snatcher. I jolly nearly bagged her !” 

“Right you are, sonny! Don’t worry yourself! 
Are you still in touch with old Snatch, by the way ?” 

The voice in the fog laughed. “No,” it said. “The 


302 


The Sub 


old blighter’s disappeared, but I’m going on now to 
find him. So long, old bird !” 

“Snatcher,” I may say, was the Commander of our 
division, in the Locksleyfs next ahead, and Snatcher, 
though he strafed us heartily if we made fools of 
ourselves, was regarded with the greatest affection. 
But we never used the nickname to his face. 

The fact that the Locksley had been forced to go 
astern transmitted the retrograde movement down our 
line, for shrill yelps had been sounding from the 
syrens astern of us as ship after ship reversed her en- 
gines. The inevitable result was that the column be- 
came telescoped, with the vessels piled up on top of 
each other, so that straightening out the tangle was a 
matter of some difficulty. 

But we succeeded in clearing the muddle somehow, 
and started off again to find the others, gradually 
altering course to starboard as we followed the Lock- 
sley round to the new course. 

Suddenly there came a frantic hail from the look- 
out man on our forecastle. 

“Ship crossing our bows from starboard, sir!” he 
yelled at the top of his voice, and even as he shouted 
both the skipper and myself saw the white wash of a 
bow-wave looming up through the wall of fog and 
heard the swishing sounds of a vessel’s passage 
through the water. 

She was perilously close, barely more than a hun- 
dred yards away, and if we continued on our pres- 
ent course we must certainly be rammed. 

But the Captain never hesitated for an instant. He 


The Bitter End 


303 


summed up the situation at a glance, and saw at once 
that the newcomer was one of the cruisers. Being 
rammed by her meant extinction, whereas she, being a 
heavier ship, could more readily afford to be collided 
with by us. 

I think I admired his coolness at that moment more 
than I had ever done before. If he had hesitated for 
an instant it would have been all up with us, but he 
instinctively chose the lesser of the two evils, and 
jumping to the starboard engine-room telegraph 
whirled it round to full speed astern, and shouted to 
the quartermaster to “Hard-a-port !” and to me to 
stop the port engine. 

It was the only thing to be done, the quickest 
method of turning the ship on her heel, and to our in- 
expressible relief she answered her helm. But by now 
the cruiser was barely thirty yards off, steaming right 
across our bows, and to avoid her altogether was abso- 
lutely out of the question, for our way had not been 
checked. It was merely a case of delivering as light 
a blow as possible. 

I caught a fleeting glimpse of an officer on her 
bridge waving his arms like a semaphore, while some- 
one else shouted something unintelligible through a 
megaphone. The two look-outs on our forecastle 
dashed madly aft to a place of safety, and before one 
could draw another breath we were into her. 

I don’t know if you have ever been in a collision at 
sea. The shock of the impact between two vessels al- 
most baffles description, and in our case can only be 
described as a horrible, crunching thud which nearly 


304 


The Sub 


threw us headlong and all but brought our mast down 
with a run. Then came the shrill tearing, screeching 
sound of twisting steel as our bows were wrenched 
sideways. We had struck her a glancing blow on the 
port side almost amidships, and our bow plating and 
stem seemed to have been forced bodily over to star- 
board and crumpled up like a concertina. The blow 
completely stopped our way and slewed the cruiser 
round through nearly a right angle, until, as the ships 
drew apart, we could see the ghastly V-shaped gash in 
her grey side. Most of her damage seemed to be 
above the water-line, but before we had time to en- 
quire if she was making much water she drew ahead 
out of sight into the fog with boatswain’s pipes twit- 
tering as her ship’s company were summoned to col- 
lision stations. 

Every soul in our ship, meanwhile, some in the scan- 
tiest of raiment, had arrived on deck and were al- 
ready carrying the collision mat forward to place it 
over the great wound in our bows. 

“Here’s a pretty finale!” the skipper muttered, 
shrugging his shoulders mournfully and thinking, no 
doubt, of his white-washed cottage. “Munro, jump 
down and see what the damage is. Come, come, boy !” 
he added, noticing my glum expression. “Don’t ship 
a mug like a sea-boot just because we’ve had a bump. 
You look like an undertaker’s mute at a funeral!” 
And he actually laughed. 

I didn’t. I wasn’t used to such goings on. It was 
the first time I had ever been in a destroyer with a 
crumpled, open-work bow in a thick fog. Also, to 


The Bitter End 


305 


make matters worse, I knew from the chart that we 
were roughly fifteen miles from the German coast and 
fully two hundred and fifty from home. And the 
other ships might leave us in the fog without realising 
that we were absent, which meant we should have to 
recall them by wireless telegraphy, thus telling the 
ever-listening Boche that we were prowling about 
in his domain. 

Moreover, as the Captain had pointed out at sun- 
rise, there was a windy look about the sky, and as the 
weather had been unsettled for some time we might 
quite reasonably expect a hard blow before long. I 
was prepared to bet that the gale, if it did come, would 
come as a regular snorter from the south-westward, 
or right in our teeth for the homeward journey. And 
suppose we found that the damage was such that we 
couldn’t steam against it? All sorts of unpleasant 
things which might happen flashed through my brain. 
The prospect was anything but rosy. 

But yet the skipper had laughed. 


hi 

“Well?” asked the Captain with some anxiety as 
the Chief and myself arrived together on the bridge. 

Prettyman, who had been crawling about in the 
battered bows to inspect the damage, wiped his face, 
already streaked with oil-fuel, with an unspeakable 
handkerchief. 

“Bad business,” he said tersely. 


3°6 


The Sub 


‘‘Caesar’s aunt!” sighed the skipper very troubled. 
“How bad?” 

“Collision bulkhead’s 1 leaking like a sieve and the 
chain locker’s flooded. The second bulkhead’s very 
dicky, badly buckled in fact, and the foremost oil-fuel 
tank under the stoker’s mess-deck is leaking into the 
sea. The ship’s down by the bows and we’re making 
water fast!” 

The Captain groaned. “Any chance of getting her 
home?” 

“Of course!” smiled the Chief, lugging his ciga- 
rette case out of the pocket of his overalls. 

“Well, what the dickens d’you want to frighten me 
for?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say we shouldn’t float, 
or anything of that kind. I merely meant it would 
be a pretty long job in the dockyard when we did get 
home.” 

The Lieutenant-Commander seemed greatly re- 
lieved. 

“We’d better shore 2 up the bulkhead with all the 
spars we can spare,” the engineer officer went on, se- 
lecting a cigarette with great care. “No. i’s doing it 
now, as a matter of fact. We’ll also shore down the 
top of the oil-tank in case it bursts with the pressure, 
but if you agree I propose to leave the oil in it to act 
as a sort of buffer. Got a match, Sub?” 

1 Bulkhead, i.e. an upright partition dividing a ship trans- 
versely into compartments. 

* Shore, i.e. a prop set obliquely or otherwise against a 
bulkhead as a support. 


The Bitter End 


307 


I handed him a box. 

“Then we’d better shift all the weights we can as 
far aft as possible to get her bows well up in the 
water, and when that’s been done we might work 
gradually up to eight knots or so and see what hap- 
pens.” 

“And what will happen?” the skipper enquired. 

“Oh!” grunted Prettyman, lighting his cigarette. 
“I think she’ll stick it all right provided the weather 
remains decent.” 

“And suppose it blows hard and we start pitching 
our bows under?” 

“It’ll be beastly unpleasant. If we put too much 
pressure on that second bulkhead and it collapses, 
well ...” He shrugged his shoulders expressively 
and went through the motions of swimming with his 
arms. 

The skipper looked rather despondent. “I’ll bet 
my bottom dollar it does blow. It always does when 
these shows happen!” 

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you, sir,” the Chief 
consoled him. “I’ve never known us come a proper 
mucker yet, and I don’t quite see why we should now. 
We shan't if I can help it, anyhow!” 

For two hours we laboured away doing what we 
could to make the ship seaworthy. The collision bulk- 
head was damaged beyond all repair, but we wedged 
spars, planks, mess-tables, and stools against the sec- 
ond bulkhead to help it to withstand the pressure of 
the water, and did the same with the top of the large 
oil-tank in the bottom of the ship which showed signs 


3°8 


The Sub 


of bulging upwards. This finished we next trans- 
ported most of the shell from the foremost shell-room, 
together with a certain amount of the cable from the 
chain locker, to the after part of the ship to bring 
the bows higher out of the water. By the time we 
had completed the work it was eight o’clock, and 
the fog was still as thick as ever, while a gentle breeze 
which hardly rippled the water was blowing fitfully 
from the westward. It was the wrong direction for 
us, but up to the present there was no malice in it. 

The skipper left the bridge to inspect the arrange- 
ments, and when he returned soon afterwards he 
looked rather more like his old self. 

“They’ve converted the mess-decks into a bally for- 
est!” he laughed. “You can hardly walk for shores. 
We’ll go ahead now and see what happens.” 

He went to the engine-room telegraph and put them 
to “slow ahead” whilst ordering the quartermaster to 
steady on a westerly course. 

The ship began to move slowly through the water, 
and to me the sound of the ripples breaking away from 
our bows was by far the sweetest music I think I have 
ever heard. 

“She sticks it!” the Captain exclaimed hopefully, 
when, after ten minutes, word came up from down 
below to say that everything was satisfactory and that 
we could go on faster. 

We worked gradually up from 6 knots to 7, from 
7 to 8, and eventually to 10, at which speed Pretty- 
man and No. 1 came up to report that the bulkhead 
on which we had to pin our faith showed no signs of 


The Bitter End 


309 


weakening, but that a further increase was inadvis- 
able without running a risk of loosening the shores. 

But 10 knots is 10 knots. We were moving in 
the right direction, and if the weather only held fine 
another four-and-twenty hours or so would see us in 
safety. 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the steward, suddenly 
appearing and addressing the Captain. “Will you 
have your breakfast up here or in the charthouse?” 

“Breakfast! Great Scott! I clean forgot. What 
have you got ?” 

“Porridge, sir, and kippers,” the man told him. 

“Bring it up here, please. A large plate of por- 
ridge, none of your canary’s helpings, mind, and two 
kippers.” 

“An’ the usual toast and marmalade, sir?” 

“Yes, please.” 

And I too made quite a respectable meal when I 
went below to the wardroom. There is never any- 
thing very much the matter with people provided their 
appetites are still healthy. 


IV 

By 9 o’clock, to judge from the chits and voice- 
pipe messages emanating from our telegraphist in his 
cubby-hole beneath the bridge, the air was rapidly 
becoming blue with wireless. 

“Have been in collision with unknown destroyer,” 
the cruiser we had rammed reported to the Commo- 
dore. “Damage serious, but can proceed under my 


3io 


The Sub 


own steam. Two destroyers in company. Do not re- 
quire assistance.” 

“Proceed to most convenient dockyard port,” went 
back the reply. 

“Have been in collision with Clytia /' said we. 
“Damage serious. No ships in company. Escort ad- 
visable. My position at 8 a.m. latitude , longi- 
tude . Course W.S.W. Speed ten knots.” 

“Am returning to search for you,” said our Com- 
modore. “Use syren.” 

Now nobody in his senses will dream of using wire- 
less telegraphy in close proximity to a hostile coast 
unless he could help it. Wireless can be heard by 
anyone and is essentially erratic, and however much 
one may damp it down it may still be heard at long 
distances. In this case, of course, its use was abso- 
lutely imperative, though when, soon afterwards, our 
telegraphist whistled up to tell us that he heard the 
shrill, unmistakable sounds of Telef unken we were 
in no way surprised. On the contrary, it was only 
what we expected. 

Brother Boche, safe in one of his lairs, now knew 
for a certainty that we were in the neighbourhood, 
and to judge from the frantic signals he was making 
he was evidently beginning to take some interest in us. 

“Are the signals strong?” the Captain asked, put- 
ting his lips to the voice-pipe. 

“Not very strong, sir, but they’re screeching some- 
thing ’orrid, and has been this last quarter of an hour. 
I can’t make head nor tail of what they’re sayin’, sir.” 

“No, of course not,” he grinned, replacing the 


The Bitter End 


3ii 


whistle in its tube and turning to me. “Perhaps old 
Fritz is coming to sea to have a look for us.” He 
eyed me and wrinkled up his face in his peculiar half- 
smile. 

“I hope not, sir,” I answered, for the last thing I 
wished for was to be hunted in our present condition. 

“Lord, don’t get rattled about them! They won’t 
find us in this fog. Besides, think of what an honour 
it would be if we dragged the High Sea Fleet to sea? 
How jolly grateful they’d be for a breath of fresh air 
again ! 

“We might even slip a mouldy into one of them 
before we went down in a blaze of glory,” he went 
on, seemingly rather in love with the idea. “Then 
you’d see your photo in the papers, my boy. Heroic 
Sub-Lieutenant who fought his ship to the last with 
his captain killed, and went down with his colours 
flying, et cetera!” 

“I shouldn’t see it, sir,” I felt bound to point out. 

“Your friends and relations would, which is much 
the same thing. However, don’t get the wind up. 
The boss is coming back to look for us, and I feel as 
safe as houses so long as he’s anywhere knocking 
about.” 

There certainly was some consolation in the knowl- 
edge that our Commodore was returning. We all had 
the fullest confidence in him, the “band of brothers” 
sort of feeling, and we knew he would never leave us 
in the lurch. But even so, and for all the skipper’s 
jokes about it, I should far prefer to be a live cross- 


3 12 


The Sub 


ing-sweeper than a defunct hero with his photo in the 
newspapers. 

Soon after io o’clock, however, we heard faint 
trumpetings in the mist ahead. Some ship was call- 
ing us up by making our number on her syren, and 
we replied. We used the terse, official phraseology 
of the signal book, of course, but it was exactly like 
two invisible people talking to each other in the dark. 

“Lictor! Lictor !” the stranger kept on asking. 
“Where are you? Why the dickens don’t you an- 
swer?” 

“All right, old girl ! Don’t get excited !” we hooted 
in our turn. “Here we are! All alive oh! Jolly glad 
to see you!” 

“Right! Glad I’ve found you at last. I am the 
Commodore’s ship. What course are you steering and 
what is your speed ?” 

We imparted the necessary information. 

“Right ! Burn 1 your searchlight to show me 
whereabouts you are, and I will get into touch with 
you. Do you want help, by the way?” 

“Not at present, thanks. We can steam ten knots 
in this weather.” 

“Very well. I will escort you. Sing out if you re- 
quire assistance.” 

“Thanks, we most certainly will,” we howled grate- 
fully. 

And sure enough about five minutes later the lean 
shape of a three- funnelled light-cruiser hove up out 

1 The glare of a searchlight can be seen in fog at a greater 
distance than the actual shape of a ship. 


The Bitter End 


313 


of the fog on our port beam. She was barely 100 
yards off, and was steering a parallel course to our- 
selves. 

"Is that you, Lictor?” she asked, with a winking 
searchlight. 

“Yes.” 

“Right! I’ll edge in ahead of you. Keep touch 
with me. Speed ten knots.” 

And within five minutes we were paddling gently 
along astern of our big friend. Her hull, 300 yards 
away, was out of sight in the fog, but one of her 
searchlights, trained astern for our benefit, glimmered 
hazily through the murk ahead. It was so thick that 
the actual rays of the light were obliterated. All we 
could see was a shining, silvery disc suspended in mid- 
air like some huge star. It was our guiding star, and 
the sight of it gave us a feeling of security and a sense 
of comradeship which mere words can never describe. 

Our troubles seemed to be at an end. We went on 
our way rejoicing. 

v 

Shortly after noon the fog rolled away as suddenly 
as it had come to leave us with a perfectly clear 
horizon to the westward. 

But it was not the fair weather horizon for which 
we had hoped. The glass had gone down and the 
aspect was distinctly threatening, and the sun had 
hidden itself in a hard grey, overcast sky blotted all 
over with masses of ugly-looking dark cloud driving 
down from the westward. The gentle breeze had 


314 


The Sub 


strengthened into a regular wind from the west-south- 
west, right in our teeth for the homeward journey. It 
freshened fast, while the rapid movement of the upper 
cloud masses, those teased-out inky harbingers of 
heavy weather, warned us that it would blow harder 
before long. 

The sea, too, was rising fast, so that by two o’clock 
we were pitching slightly against the crisp little waves 
and occasional whiffs of spray came rattling against 
the canvas screens of the bridge. 

I noticed the skipper gazing anxiously out across 
the sea and looking at the compass every now and then 
to note the direction of the wind. He said nothing, 
but I could see from his expression that he didn’t like 
it. Neither did I. The prospect of having to punch 
our way home through a typical sou’wester was any- 
thing but joyful. We seemed to have hopped out of 
the frying-pan into the fire, and I must confess that 
that weak, shored-up bulkhead which alone stood be- 
tween us and the deep sea was very prominent in my 
thoughts. 

And presently, as if to emphasise it, a report came 
up from below to say that the bulkhead showed signs 
of bulging and that some of the shores were working 
loose with the motion of the ship. We accordingly 
eased to 8 knots, and informed the Commodore by 
signal. 

“I anticipate bad weather,” he said in reply. “Do 
not risk your ship unnecessarily. Are you sufficiently 
seaworthy to steam at slow speed against a heavy 
sea?” 



0 


WE ARE TOWED HOME. 








The Bitter End 


315 


We answered in the negative. 

“Prepare to be taken in tow by the stem, ,, came 
back at once. “Turn stern to sea and stop engines. 
I will send hawser.” 

Within an hour, with our engines jogging slowly 
astern to keep the ship more or less straight, and a 
43^ -inch steel wire hawser attached to our towing 
slip right aft, we were being ignominiously tugged 
along at 6 T / 2 knots. Stern first, if you please; a 
method of procedure which would have been amusing 
if it hadn’t been so intensely pathetic. I prefer not to 
remember too much about it, and do not propose to 
give a long and detailed description of our ghastly 
trip home. A destroyer can stand almost any weather 
bows on, but it is not designed for being dragged 
backwards into a sea, while our stern seemed to act 
as a sort of scoop to every wave that came along. 

And that same night it came on to blow great guns 
from the south-westward. Our speed dropped from 
6 l / 2 knots to 5, from 5 to 3, and from 3 until we were 
only just moving against it. Even so, the huge, 
yeasty-topped combers, crashing against our blunt 
after part and erupting on board ten and fifteen feet 
deep, removed every movable fitting from the stern 
of the ship and rendered the after portion quite un- 
inhabitable. The worst of it was that the store-rooms 
containing all our food were right aft, so after salv- 
ing enough provender to last us the journey, we bat- 
tened down as best we could and picnicked forward 
for the rest of the trip. 

But the stoutest watertight hatches, let alone pur 


3i6 


The Sub 


light ones, would never have withstood the battering, 
and try as we could we could not prevent water finding 
its way below. Moreover, every ounce of water in 
the after compartments decreased the buoyancy of the 
ship and made things worse. 

At daylight the next morning it was blowing the 
father and mother of a gale and the sea was as bad 
as ever, while the ship, jerking to the pull of the 
towing wire, crashed, thudded, and shook so that I 
thought she would break in halves. Destroyers, pro- 
ceeding ahead, poured oil on the water to calm the sea, 
but though by so doing they prevented the waves ac- 
tually from breaking, nothing could flatten the steep 
rollers which threatened to overwhelm us. And at io 
o’clock that morning, to add to our misery, the tow- 
ing wire snapped, and for two mortal hours we rolled 
in the trough of the sea, while a destroyer took us in 
tow with her chain cable. The dreary progress was 
resumed at about noon, but half an hour later the 
cable itself, jerking clean out of the water, parted like 
a banjo string, so that we fell off broadside on again, 
rolling fifty degrees either way. 

Then it was that I thought we should have to aban- 
don the ship, for the after compartments, though we 
kept the pumps going all the time, were flooded, while 
the bulkhead forward sagged like a piece of cardboard 
and a party of men were constantly at work replacing 
and wedging up the shores. 

But the Commodore was the last man to think of 
abandoning a ship while there was the least chance of 
salving her, and steaming his vessel quite close he low- 


The Bitter End 


317 


ered a boat and passed us another hawser. The haw- 
ser was followed by the end of his large chain cable, 
which, after nearly three hours’ back-breaking work, 
with every soul in the ship sliding and tumbling about 
on our sea-swept deck, we eventually succeeded in 
dragging on board and securing to our stern. Then 
the cruiser went slowly ahead, and once more our 
stern was pointing for home. This time the cable 
held. 

It was seventy-one hours after the collision, seventy- 
one hours of unmitigated agony, that daylight came 
and we saw the thin blue streak of the Engh >h coast 
spread out across the western horizon. Ex hausted, 
unshaven, hungry, and wet through we ga? d at it. 
Our hearts were full of joy, and we could ha /e fallen 
on our knees and prayed for sheer thankfulne s. 

And then a few hours later when we got in under 
the lee of the land tugs came out to meet t s and we 
cast off the tow. 

“Congratulate you on keeping your ship afloat,” 
said the Commodore. 

“We are very grateful to you for getting us home,” 
said we, and so we jolly well were. 

VI 

And that same afternoon, when we were safely 
berthed alongside the jetty and temporary repairs 
were being effected to enable us to proceed to a dock- 
yard, the skipper, whose cabin had been flooded to a 
depth of six feet, arrayed himself in a borrowed mon- 


3i8 


The Sub 


key- jacket and went to report to the Commodore. He 
went away with a face like a sea-boot, but came back 
beaming. 

“What’s the news, sir?” somebody ventured to ask. 

“Everything is peace,” he said joyfully. “The old 
man is all smiles. He says these things must happen 
sometimes, and that, though there’ll be a Court of 
Enquiry, he doesn’t think I shall get scrubbed.” 

When the Court of Enquiry did come off the skip- 
per was exonerated from all blame. In addition he 
received an expression of their Lordships’ apprecia* 
tion for saving his ship in very difficult circumstances. 

And the Lictor, though we all left her a year ago 
to turn over to a newer destroyer, has steamed many 
thousands of miles since that adventure. 


THE END 






































































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